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SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 


Scribes  and  Pharisees 


A  Story  of  Literary  London 


BY 

WILLIAM   LE   QUEUX 

AUTHOR   OF 

1  Whoso  Findeth  a  Wife,'    *  Zoraida,'    '  The  Great  War 

in  England,1    '  Devil's  Dice,'    *  A  Madonna 

of  the  Music   Halls,'   Etc. 


1 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1898 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  William  Le  Queux. 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


Amants,   guerriers, 
Durs  justiciers, 
Gros  financiers : 

Paillasses ! 
Amour,   fierte, 
Gloire,   equite 
Et  loyaute  : 

Grimaces ! 


O  O  T  ~  r  O 


TO 
MY    BROTHER    'VAGABONDS' 

THOSE    MERRY    BOHEMIANS    WHO    WRITE    AND    PAINT 

I    INSCRIBE    THIS    STORY    OF 

LITERARY    AND    JOURNALISTIC    LONDON 

IN    THE    HOPE    THAT    THEY    WILL    FORGIVE    ANY    CRITICISM 

AND    NOT    SEEK    TO    DISCOVER 

THE     ORIGINALS     OF     CERTAIN     CHARACTERS 

I    HAVE    HEREIN    ATTEMPTED   TO   DRAW 


VIALE  REGINA  MARGHERITA,   LlVORNO 
February,  1898 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Sign   of  the  Dead  Rat i 

II.     Behind   Notre   Dame 12 

III.  The  Trail  of   the   Unknown 24 

IV.  Fosca 3  5 

V.     Ik  a  London   Suburb 49 

VI.     One  Face 6o 

VII.     The  Student  and  the  Subject 7  + 

VIII.     Grey  Days 86 

IX.     The  Millstone 97 

X.     A  World  of   'Tape'    and  'Flimsy'.      .      .      .  107 

XI.     'To  Love  and  to   Cherish' 122 

XII.     The  Boom "3° 

XIII.  Bohemia  and   Belgravia H5 

XIV.  'In  the  Swim' «56 

XV.     The  Secret  of  a  Day 169 

XVI.     Friends l83 

XVII.     The  Cup  of  Pleasure 190 

XVIII.     'That  Woman's  Lover' 203 

XIX.     Among  the  'Vagabonds' 212 

XX.     A   'Par'   in  the  Papers 225 

XXI.     The  Pharisee 23  5 

XXII.     The  Lily  City 248 

XXIII.  Life's  Flotsam z61 

XXIV.  A  Revelation 272 

XXV.     At  the  Grey  House 284 

XXVI.     The  Truth 293 

Conclusion 3°4 


Scribes  and  Pharisees 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    SIGN    OF    THE    DEAD    RAT 

c  She's  a  mystery.' 

'  Well,  at  any  rate,  Teddy  is  infatuated  —  terribly  in- 
fatuated.' 

c  And  he  knows  absolutely  nothing  of  her  —  of  her  right 
name,  of  where  she  lives,  or  of  who  she  really  is.  He  says 
he  does ;  but  I  know  better,  my  dear  fellow.  I've  got  my 
suspicions.' 

*  Suspicions  of  what  ?  ' 

Bertram  Rosmead,  the  indolent  student,  who  had  thus 
expressed  doubt,  smiled  mysteriously.  He  had  flung  him- 
self upon  the  frayed  and  faded  couch  at  the  open  window 
of  the  airy,  high-up  old  room  on  the  Quai  Montebello,  and 
was  lying  with  his  hands  lazily  clasped  behind  his  head  and 
a  caporal  in  his  mouth,  in  an  attitude  of  idle  contentment. 
The  rose  and  orange  of  the  afterglow  had  faded.  The  roar 
of  Paris  came  up  from  the  streets  below,  and  as  he  gazed 
dreamily  across  the  placid  river  where  beyond  showed 
against  the  clear  evening  sky  the  twin  time-worn  towers 
of  Notre  Dame,  the  thin  gilt  spire  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
and  the  ancient  gothic  tower  of  St.  Jacques,  he  pondered 
deeply.  The  day  was  over ;  the  Paris  of  Pleasure  was 
lighting  up,  beginning  its  night  of  wild  delight. 

i 


'      I  t   t 


2  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

4  You'd  better  not  express  any  such  doubts  in  Teddy's 
hearing.  He'd  be  furious,'  observed  Jean  Potin,  his  fellow- 
student,  who,  together  with  the  man  they  were  discussing, 
shared  equally  that  shabby  room,  half  study,  half  studio,  in 
which  they  sat.  The  place  was  silent  and  gloomy  in  the 
dusk,  its  three  easels  standing  in  line  together,  the  lay-figure 
looking  ghostly  in  the  half-light,  while  the  human  skull 
perched  on  the  top  of  the  smoke-begrimed  cupboard  grinned 
grimly  down  upon  them. 

Rosmead  laughed.  He  was  about  twenty-two,  slim,  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  with  features  somewhat  aquiline,  square 
jaws  denoting  considerable  determination,  a  refined,  sensi- 
tive mouth,  and  brows  well  arched  —  a  decidedly  clever  face, 
regular,  expressive,  and  beaming  with  good  humour. 

'  Teddy's  an  Irishman  —  all  Irishmen  are  apt  to  be  im- 
petuous,' he  said,  without  removing  his  cigarette. 

c  His  impetuousness  nearly  brought  him  into  trouble  when 
he  knocked  down  the  gendarme  outside  the  Chat  Noir  the 
other  night,'  the  young  Frenchman  laughed. 

1  That  hirondelle  de  grive  owed  Teddy  a  grudge  ever  since 
the  night  during  the  July  fetes  when  he  kissed  a  girl  on  the 
Boulevard,  and  she  complained  of  his  conduct.  There  was 
a  row,  I  believe,  and  the  O' Donovan  squared  up  to  the  ele- 
gant official,  and  would  have  chawed  him  up  if  the  Mar- 
quis, Antoine,  and  some  of  the  boys  had  not  been  present 
and  succeeded  in  carrying  him  off  by  sheer  force  of  num- 
bers/ Rosmead  spoke  French  and  used  Parisian  slang  — 
the  slang  of  the  Quartier  Latin  —  in  a  manner  few  Eng- 
lishmen could. 

c  I've  noticed  he's  been  a  little  triste  these  last  few  days,' 
the  young  Frenchman  said,  speaking  with  a  strong  Breton 
accent.     '  Teddy  is  not  his  usual  self.' 

1  The  girl,  my  dear  Jean  —  the  girl,'  answered  the  care- 
lessly-dressed   Bohemian,  with    the    air    of  a   philosopher. 


THE   SIGN    OF   THE   DEAD    RAT  3 

c  Poor  old  Teddy  is  in  love.  He  hasn't  shouted  M  Hurrah 
for  Countv  Cork,"  these  ten  days,  and  he  never  goes  down 
to  Mother  Gery's  now.  Where's  he  gone  this  evening  in 
such  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  I  wonder  ? ' 

1  To  meet  her,'  his  fellow-student  said.  l  He  meets  her  at 
eight  ever^  night  in  the  little  garden  in  the  Rue  du  Cloitre.' 

1  At  eight,'  Rosmead  repeated  reflectively.  '  Then, 
after  all,  she   may  be  out   of  one  of  the  magasins.* 

1  From  the  Louvre,  or  Bon  Marche,  I've  thought.' 

c  No,  I  can't  believe  that,'  said  the  young  Englishman. 
4  From  her  manner  she's  evidently  a  lady.' 

Jean  raised  his  shoulders  to  his  ears  with  expressive 
gesture,  but  uttered  no  word.  He  was  thin-faced,  rather 
tall  and  slim,  of  sallow  complexion,  and  a  trifle  sad-looking, 
with  a  pair  of  deep-set,  penetrating  black  eyes.  His  clothes 
were  shabbv,  and  paint-besmirched,  and,  like  Rosmead,  his 
fingers  were  stained  vellow  by  the  caporals  he  eternally  con- 
sumed, while  the  black  silk  cravat  knotted  around  his  neck 
did  dual  dutv  as  collar  and  tie.  But  in  that  gay,  careless 
set  to  which  thev  belonged  a  man  was  never  judged  by  the 
cut  of  his  coat,  the  glossiness  of  his  hat,  or  the  manner  in 
which  his  cravat  was  tied.  Theirs  was  a  merry  life,  spells 
of  spasmodic  work  at  home  or  at  Julien's  being  invariably 
followed  bv  wild  outbursts  of  pleasure. 

Bertram  Rosmead,  Jean  Potin,  and  Teddv  O'Donovan 
formed  a  trio  of  students  as  merry,  as  reckless,  and  as 
impecunious  as  any  in  the  quaint  old  Quartier  Latin. 
Through  three  whole  years  they  had  lived  a  life  of  feast 
one  day  and  fast  the  next  in  that  bare,  ill-furnished  sky- 
attic,  sharing  each  other's  joys  and  sorrows,  alternately 
idling  and  working,  smoking  their  long  rank  cigars  pur- 
chased in  the  c  Boul.  Mich.'  at  five  centimes  apiece,  and 
quenching  their  insatiable  thirst  with  an  exceedingly  inex- 
pensive wine  possessed  of  a  better  colour  than  taste.      Little 


4  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

they  knew  and  less  they  cared  for  the  worries  of  life,  exist- 
ing as  they  did  in  Bohemia,  their  world  apart. 

In  those  days  the  old  Quartier  still  existed,  dirty,  bizarre, 
and  filled  with  men  many  of  whose  names  have  since  be- 
come household  words  throughout  Europe ;  men  now  dis- 
tinguished in  the  worlds  of  art,  literature,  medicine,  and 
diplomacy  ;  men  who,  fifteen  years  ago,  were  glad  enough 
to  dine  at  Mother  Gery's  for  half-a-franc,  and  even  to  eat 
a  handful  of  roasted  marrons  on  a  winter's  night  to  keep  out 
the  cold  and  stave  off  the  pangs  of  hunger.  Those  were 
days  of  empty  stomachs  and  full  brains  ;  of  cheerful  yester- 
days and  confident  to-morrows,  of  wild  practical  joking, 
of  shifts  and  debts,  of  good  humour,  of  rollicking  merriment 
and  genuine  good-fellowship. 

The  man  who  knew  the  beloved  old  Quartier  in  those 
well-remembered  days,  and  now  revisits  it,  will  sigh  to  note 
everywhere  a  change.  If  he  forsakes  the  present,  leaves 
the  busy  Rue  de  Rivoli,  crosses  the  Pont  Neuf,  and  plunges 
for  a  brief  hour  into  the  past,  he  will  soon  discern  that 
Bohemia  no  longer  exists  there.  Its  old-world  charm  has 
passed  away,  because  it  has  become  modernised,  and  has 
assumed  a  sorry  air  of  mock  gentility.  Let  him  glance  up 
at  the  four  well-remembered  top  windows  of  that  dingy- 
looking  house  on  the  Quai  Montebello,  the  grey  front  of 
which  faces  the  Seine,  and  he  will  actually  discover  lace 
curtains  there  !  Alas  !  that  the  grisette  died  with  Murger 
and  Musset. 

But  in  the  days  when  that  high-up  room  was  tenanted  by 
these  three  happy,  indolent  revellers  the  Quartier  was  still 
Bohemia,  and  of  all  those  who  used  to  dine  so  frugally  at 
the  little  cremerie  with  the  red  blinds  in  the  Rue  Galande 
there  was  not  one  more  popular  among  his  fellows  than 
Bertram  Rosmead.  As  an  artist  he  was  sadly  wanting  in 
talent.      Everybody  knew  it;   he  himself  was  too  painfully 


THE   SIGN   OF   THE   DEAD    RAT  5 

aware  of  it.  But  he  was  a  born  vagabond,  a  thorough- 
going Bohemian,  who  would  lounge  into  the  Grand  Cafe  in 
his  threadbare  clothes,  collarless,  with  his  rusty  black  cravat 
secured  in  a  big  bow,  and  order  his  refreshment  with  the  air 
of  a  prince,  and  even  go  to  the  opera  and  rub  shoulders  with 
the  daintiest  Parisienncs  in  the  same  paint-bespattered  jacket 
and  with  several  days'  growth  of  beard  upon  his  chin.  He 
spoke  with  all  the  argot  of  the  seamy  side  of  Paris  life,  and 
held  in  esteem  and  respect  by  his  fellow-students,  he  was 
perfectly  content,  caring  absolutely  nothing  for  the  opinion 
of  the  world.  To  the  true  Bohemian  the  Seine  separated 
his  own  world  from  that  outside,  forming  a  distinct  division 
between  the  quartier  he  loved  and  the  quartier  he  held  in 
contempt. 

These  three  led  a  reckless  life.  In  those  idle  davs  the 
quips  of  Droz  convulsed  them,  the  romances  of  Sue  held 
them  breathless,  and  the  pathos  of  Murger  caused  lumps 
to  rise  in  their  throats.  In  those  days  time  was  counted 
bv  the  dates  of  remittances  from  home,  and  at  that  period, 
in  their  youthful  enthusiasm,  they  all  of  them  believed 
their  works  would  one  day  be  hung  in  the  Luxembourg 
for  the  admiration  of  the  crowds  of  gaping  tourists  who 
daily  flock  there.  They  were  indeed  as  light-hearted, 
cosmopolitan,  and  open-hearted  a  trio  as  ever  trod  the 
Pont  Neuf  or  handled  a  stick  in  a  student's  scrimmage. 

4  If  she's  really  a  lady,'  Jean  observed,  after  a  lono; 
pause,  during  which,  perched  on  the  high  painting-stool, 
he  pensively  sketched  in  crayon  an  imaginarv  caricature 
of  Teddy  kissing  his  mvsterious  divinity,  c  if  she  reallv 
is  a  lady,'  he  repeated  with  emphasis,  holding  his  head  on 
one  side  as  he  contemplated  his  sketch,  l  it's  certainly 
strange  that  she  should  have  taken  up  with  the  O'Donovan. 
All  along  he's  said  he  hated  women.' 

4  Yes,    it    is   strange,'   acquiesced    Rosmead.      lI    alwavs 


6  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

thought  that  he  was  proof  against  love-looks.'  Then, 
reflecting  upon  one  or  two  of  his  own  minor  affairs  of  the 
heart,  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  (  All  of  us  have  our  spells  of 
foolishness  now  and  then,  I  suppose.' 

c  Ah !  you  speak  from  experience.  Have  you  seen 
Fosca  lately  ? ' 

1  Fosca  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? '  the  young  Englishman 
asked,  raising  his  eyebrows  with  well-feigned  astonishment. 

'  Fosca  has  fascinated  you,  my  dear  Bertie,'  his  friend  said, 
with  a  tantalising  laugh.     'You  can't  deny  it  —  come.' 

Rosmead  smiled. 

'  I  suppose  it's  useless,'  he  laughed.  c  I  didn't  think 
you'd  notice  it.      Do  any  of  the  other  fellows  know  ? ' 

'  Everybody  knows,'  was  Jean's  prompt  reply.  c  When 
a  man  as  popular  at  Julien's  as  Bertram  Rosmead  falls  in 
love,  the  Quartier  very  soon  knows  all  about  it.' 

'But  I'm  not  avec  un jaune  d'ceufj  Rosmead  protested, 
involuntarily  dropping  into  slang.  c  I  think  it's  devilish 
hard  on  a  fellow  to  spread  such  unfounded  reports.  When 
I  bought  a  new  hat  —  two  years  ago  now — everybody 
knew  about  it  within  half  an  hour,  and  the  word  went 
forth  that  I'd  joined  the  gommeaux.  And  with  what  re- 
sult ?  That  hat  was  not  on  my  head  an  hour  before  two 
fellows  came  along,  snatched  it  off,  and  pitched  it  into  the 
Seine  ;  while  a  dozen  other  of  the  boys  stood  laughing  at 
me  as  I  watched  it  bobbing  merrily  away  beneath  the 
bridge.  I  haven't  bought  a  silk  hat  since,  and  I  shall 
never  have  another.      It's  too  respectable.' 

c  But  what  about  La  Fosca  ?  '  Jean  demanded.  c  Did 
you  see  her  when  you  were  out  this  morning  ?  ' 

cNo;   but  I  met  the  Marquis.' 

1  And  he  wanted  to  borrow,  I  suppose  ? ' 

c  I  lent  him  the  usual  thirty  centimes,'  responded  the 
man  on  the  couch,  stretching  himself  and  yawning.      '  Poor 


THE   SIGN    OF   THE   DEAD    RAT  7 

Marquis!    he's   always   absolutely    stony  —  brouill'e  avec  le 
directeur  de  la  Monnaie*  and  he  laughed. 

'Yes,  but  with  him  borrowing  has  become  an  involun- 
tary act,*  Jean  exclaimed  quickly.  c  A  fortnight  ago, 
when  mv  last  remittance  came,  he  took  me  into  a  corner 
and  confided  to  me  that  he  hadn't  a  sou  in  his  pocket,  and 
wanted  five  francs  to  buy  some  nourishment  for  his  ailing 
wife.  I  lent  him  it  —  five  single  francs.  Ten  minutes 
later,  when  we  were  parting,  he  took  me  to  have  a  drink 
in  at  Chauvel's,  and  he  actually  had  the  impudent  audacity 
to  pay  for  it  with  a  ten-franc  piece  !  ' 

c  Rough  on  you,  old  fellow,'  Rosmead  laughed.  c  He's 
reduced  borrowing  to  a  fine  art.  I  believe  he's  had  loans 
from  the  fellows  sufficient  by  this  time  to  pay  off  the  mort- 
gage on  his  chateau? 

1  His  chateau  in  Spain  ? '  observed  Jean,  smiling. 

Rosmead  made  no  reply.  Giuseppe  Farini,  the  grev- 
bearded  old  Italian  who  sat  as  model  for  the  head  of  St. 
Peter,  was  a  well-known  figure  in  Bohemia.  Where  he 
lived  nobody  knew.  He  was  of  that  type  which  the  lower 
class  Parisian  would  term  a  galapiat.  He  existed  chieflv 
on  charity  and  by  loans  extracted  from  artists  to  whom  he 
had  sat,  and  was  inclined  to  frequent  the  lowest  wine-shops 
whenever  the  generosity  of  his  friends  allowed  him  to  dis- 
sipate. For  many  years  he  had  lived  in  the  Ouartier,  and 
his  handsome  furrowed  face  had  been  perpetuated  many 
and  many  a  time  by  men  who  had  since  made  their  mark, 
and  whose  portraits  of  him  now  hung  in  various  galleries 
in  Europe.  Like  those  who  emploved  him,  or  gave  him 
alms,  Giuseppe  was  a  Bohemian,  although  given  to  boast- 
ing when  in  his  cups.  Legend  had  it  that  once,  long  ago, 
he  had  staggered  into  Mother  Gery's,  and  having  created 
a  disturbance,  was  ordered  by  a  man,  now  a  member  of  the 
Academy,  to  leave  the  place.      Whereupon  the  model  with 


8  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

the  apostolic  face  struck  an  attitude,  and  announced  that  in 
his  own  country  he  was  a  marquis,  the  holder  of  a  title  as 
ancient  as  Notre  Dame  itself.  From  that  moment  the 
students  bestowed  upon  him  the  title  of  '  the  Marquis,'  and 
as  such  he  was  ever  afterwards  known.  His  daughter 
Fosca,  too,  was  a  familiar  figure,  universally  admired  by  the 
students,  for  she  was  a  handsome  girl  with  black  eyes  and 
features  of  the  true  Tuscan  type,  who  was  engaged  as 
assistant  in  the  lace  department  of  the  Grand  Magasins  de 
Louvre,  the  great  building  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  tricol- 
our on  the  roof  of  which  Rosmead  could  plainly  see  from 
where  he  had  lazily  stretched  himself. 

Jean  had  spoken  the  truth — he  loved  Fosca.  In  the 
Quartier,  where  there  were  dozens  of  other  men  who  had 
endeavoured  in  vain  to  win  smiles  from  her,  he  alone  had 
been  able  to  induce  her  to  take  walks  with  him,  to  extract 
from  her  an  acknowledgment  of  love.  They  did  not  meet 
often,  for  the  hours  at  the  Louvre  were  long,  and  the 
female  assistants  were  not  allowed  to  roam  the  Paris  streets 
at  night,  as  those  of  similar  establishments  in  London. 
Sometimes  he  would  cross  the  Pont  d'Arcole  and  enter  the 
gigantic  magasin  where  all  Paris  shopped,  and,  making  his 
way  among  mazes  of  counters  presided  over  by  neatly- 
dressed  girls  in  black,  would  pause  at  that  devoted  to  the 
sale  of  Valenciennes,  Maltese,  Spanish,  and  Torchon,  and 
under  the  pretence  of  making  a  purchase  would  make  an 
appointment.  But  the  keen  eye  of  the  head  saleswoman 
was  always  upon  them,  therefore  on  such  occasions  their 
conversation  was  always  brief  and  to  the  point,  and  only 
on  Sunday  evenings  under  the  trees  in  the  Tuileries  Gar- 
dens or  in  the  Avenue  des  Champs-Elysees,  could  he  press 
her  hand  and  pour  forth  his  declarations  of  fervent  devo- 
tion. The  Marquis  had,  however,  quickly  discovered  the 
attachment,  and  with  an  instinct  of  thrift  had  at  once  made 


THE    SIGN   OF   THE    DEAD    RAT  9 

it  a  source  of  income.  Many  were  the  thirty-centime  loans 
he  obtained  from  the  easy-going,  improvident  student,  be- 
cause the  latter  could  not  refuse  a  favour  to  Fosca's  father. 

Bertram  Rosmead  was  as  light  in  pocket  as  in  heart. 
The  son  of  a  struggling  London  barrister  who  had  died 
ten  years  before,  the  cost  of  his  education  had  been  de- 
frayed by  a  wealthy  and  somewhat  eccentric  uncle,  who 
had  subsequently  allowed  him  to  choose  a  profession,  and 
he  had  chosen  that  of  artist.  The  allowance  the  old  man 
made  him  in  order  that  he  might  study  at  Julien's  was 
not  large;  indeed,  it  only  just  sufficed  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together ;  but  on  completion  of  his  studies  he  knew 
that  this  must  cease,  therefore,  although  convinced  that  he 
had  but  little  artistic  talent,  he  hesitated  to  confess  the  ap- 
palling fact  to  his  uncle.  When  he  had  first  come  to  Paris 
he  was  eager,  enthusiastic,  and  fired  with  ambition  ;  but 
soon,  like  every  other  student,  the  easy,  lazv  life  sapped  his 
energies  until  he  found  himself  caring  nothing  whatever 
about  art,  preferring  to  spend  the  summer  days  in  idleness, 
reading  the  cheap  romances  purchased  from  the  stalls  along 
the  quays.  He  was  no  longer  ambitious,  born  Bohemian 
that  he  was.  So  long  as  he  had  a  franc  or  two  to  jingle  in 
his  pocket,  the  society  of  Jean  and  Teddy,  and  Fosca's  eyes 
with  their  genuine  love-light  shining  upon  him,  he  wanted 
nothing  else,  and  was  careless  of  all  the  world  beside. 

He  glanced  from  the  open  window  back  into  the  gloomy 
room.  On  the  three  easels  were  canvases  nearly  finished, 
two  of  them  being  very  mediocre  productions,  while  the 
third,  a  head  of  Bacchus,  showed  talent  of  no  mean  order. 
The  fact  was  that  neither  Rosmead  nor  his  companion  were 
brilliant ;   the  absent  Irishman  alone  possessed  genius. 

Jean,  having  finished  his  cigarette  and  tossed  the  end  out 
of  the  window,  descended  from  his  perch  to  obtain  another, 
and  as  he  did  so,  remarked  : 


io  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

1  Teddy  is  going  to  bring  Mademoiselle  up  here  to-night.' 

1  Teddy  going  to  bring  her  here  ? '  echoed  Rosmead,  in- 
credulously, raising  himself  upon  his  elbow  and  looking 
towards  his  fellow-student.  '  He  said  nothing  to  me 
about  it.' 

4  He  told  me  in  confidence,'  the  young  Frenchman  ex- 
plained. '  He  said  he  shouldn't  tell  you,  because  he  believed 
you  didn't  like  her.' 

4  He  guessed  aright.  I  don't  like  her,'  the  other  an- 
swered promptly. 

c  You  seem  to  entertain  some  rather  absurd  prejudice,' 
Jean  observed,  standing  in  the  half-light  with  both  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets.      '  Why  ?  ' 

4  I'm  afraid  Teddy  will  make  a  fool  of  himself  over  her. 
He's  never  loved  before,  and  he's  capable  of  any  mad  folly.' 

c  But  she's  charming,  and  she  speaks  English,'  observed 
the  young  Breton.  l  When  we  met  them  in  the  Rue  Casti- 
glione  the  other  day  I  thought  her  extremely  pretty.' 

c  Yes,  pretty,  and  that's  all,'  growled  Rosmead,  with  un- 
usual asperity.  '  He's  becoming  a  dandy.  He  brushes  his 
clothes  every  day  now,  and  rubs  his  hands  with  pumice- 
stone  to  get  the  colours  out  of  them.  And  all  through 
her.' 

c  You've  taken  a  violent  dislike  to  her.' 

1  Yes,  I  have,'  Bertram  Rosmead  admitted.  c  Teddy's 
one  of  us,  and  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  stand  by  and  see  him  im- 
posed upon  by  a  worthless,  good-for-nothing  hussy  who 
won't  even  give  her  name  or  address — an  adventuress,  or 
a  woman  who  frequents  the  Rat  Mort,  for  aught  we  know.' 

1  But  you've  just  expressed  the  opinion  that  she's  a  lady,' 
Potin  protested. 

'  And  don't  ladies  go  there  ?  Don't  some  of  the  most 
wealthy  and  notable  women  in  Paris  put  on  their  maids' 
dresses  and  go  there  to  dine  at   those  two  long   tables   off 


THE   SIGN   OF   THE    DEAD    RAT  il 

plates  ornamented  by  dead  rats  ?      Have  nut  you  and  I  wit- 
nessed it  with  our  own  eyes  ? ' 

The  Breton  nodded. 

'  And  you  believe  that  of  her  ?  '  he  asked,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause. 

1  Yes,'  Rosmead  answered,  l  I  do.' 

Potin  looked  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  mysteriously. 

lA  modern  Sappho  —  a  belle-petite ? "  he  observed  in- 
quiringly. 

'  Exactly.' 

1  Then  if  such  is  reallv  the  case,'  Potin  said,  l  I  can 
well  understand  your  indignation  that  your  compatriot 
should  have  fallen  in  love  with  her.  Such  women  are 
worse  than   the  lowest  daughter  of  the  pavement.' 

And  both  smoked  on  in  silence,  while  the  great  bell  of 
Notre  Dame  slowly  boomed  forth  the  hour.  Then,  as 
Potin  went  out  to  get  his  dinner  at  Mother  Gery's,  Ros- 
mead, gay  and  light-hearted  as  always,  sighed,  raised 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  beating  time  with  his 
cigarette-stained  finger,  commenced  to  sing  in  a  fair  tenor 
voice  the  waltz  refrain  of  that  old  song  so  popular  in  the 
Quartier : 

Mimi,  Musette, 
Ninon,  Suzette, 
Las  !  qui  n' implore 
Votre  retour 
Comme  une  aurore 
D'amour  ! 

Car  vous  aviez  la  fantaisie 
Qui  manque  a  la  stupide  fin 
De  ce  siecle  de  bourgeoisie  ; 
Car  vous  etiez  la  poesie 
Des  pays  boheme  et  latin. 


CHAPTER    II 

BEHIND    NOTRE    DAME 

While  Rosmead  and  the  young  Breton  were  thus  dis- 
cussing Teddy  O'Donovan's  love  affair,  the  man  whose 
infatuation  had  awakened  such  severe  criticism  was  loung- 
ing in  Father  Gros's  little  wine-shop  in  the  Rue  St. 
Severin,  a  low-ceilinged,  smoke-begrimed  place  much  fre- 
quented by  students,  its  specialty  being  the  wine  at  four 
sous.  At  one  of  the  little  tables  sat  the  big,  round-faced, 
fair-haired,  merry  Irishman  known  to  all  in  the  Quartier  as 
c  The  Bouchon,'  the  French  equivalent  for  Cork.  The 
nicknames  in  Bohemia  were  frequently  derived  from  the 
native  town  of  the  student,  and  in  this  instance,  as  Teddy 
was  eternally  referring  to  the  city  in  the  south  of  Ireland 
whence  he  hailed,  some  wit  or  other  at  once  translated  it 
into  French,  and  ever  afterwards  he  bore  the  appellation. 

As  he  sat  with  his  worn-out,  baggy-kneed  trousers 
turned  up  over  cracked  boots,  a  coat  which  had  once  been 
dark  blue,  but  was  now  rapidly  assuming  a  shade  of  stone 
grey,  a  soft,  round  felt  hat  stuck  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
a  handkerchief  knotted  around  his  throat,  and  a  long,  thin, 
and  terribly  rank  cigar  between  his  teeth,  he  looked  the 
very  picture  of  laziness  and  carelessness.  At  Julien's  he 
had  already  been  singled  out  as  a  coming  man.  That  he 
could  paint  well,  and  was  an  adept  at  foreshortening  the 
figure,  was   acknowledged  everywhere,  and    even   Glenat, 


BEHIND   NOTRE   DAME  13 

the  great  critic  of  the  Figaro,  who  had  seen  some  of  his 
work,  had  bestowed  upon  it  a  word  of  commendation. 
Praise  from  Glenat  was  praise  indeed,  as  every  artist  in 
Paris  knows. 

Many  men  after  this  would  have  given  themselves  airs  ; 
but  not  so  with  Teddy.  He  was  essentially  an  idler, 
essentially  a  merrv,  good-hearted,  open-handed  Bohemian. 
His  friends  were  wealthy  ;  he  belonged  to  one  of  the 
county  families  in  Ireland,  and  his  father  had  represented 
Galway  in  the  House  for  ten  years.  He,  however,  pre- 
ferred life  in  the  Quartier  to  that  in  an  English  cavalry 
regiment,  for  which  he  had  originally  been  intended,  and 
having  taken  up  art  as  a  profession,  no  one  was  more  sur- 
prised than  himself  at  his  own  success.  Wild  and  reck- 
less, he  was  regarded  as  a  leader  in  anv  pranks  which  the 
students  played  upon  the  representatives  of  law  and  order, 
for  his  burly  form  and  great  physical  strength  placed  him 
far  above  his  puny  fellow-students,  and  in  a  street  scrim- 
mage his  c  Hurrah  for  County  Cork  ! '  was  as  a  well-known 
war-cry. 

Many  times  he  had  been  within  an  ace  of  arrest.  Of 
the  many  droll  stories  told  of  his  resourcefulness,  one  was 
how  one  night,  after  climbing  a  street  lamp  and  lighting  his 
long  Virginia,  first  breaking  the  glass,  he  slipped  down  to 
the  pavement,  and  there  found  a  policeman  awaiting  him. 
In  an  instant  he  rushed  awav,  and  was  hotly  pursued.  His 
long  legs,  however,  soon  outdistanced  his  pursuer,  when  sud- 
denly he  dashed  into  a  doorway,  entered  the  concierge's  little 
den,  flung  aside  his  hat,  and  assuming  the  peaked  and  greasy 
headgear  of  the  absent  porter,  sank  into  a  chair.  When 
the  policeman  entered  he  was  poring  over  the  Soir  in  the 
dimly-lit  little  room.  l  Did  you  see  a  student  enter  a  mo- 
ment ago  ?  '  demanded  the  breathless  policeman.  c  Yes,' 
answered  the   O'Donovan  gruffly,  c  Pierre  Manuel,  fourth 


14  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

floor,  just  gone  up.'  The  officer  dashed  upstairs  two  steps 
at  a  time,  while  Teddy,  picking  up  his  hat,  resumed  it,  and 
calmly  walked  home. 

Opposite  him,  at  the  little  table  that  evening  in  Father 
Gros's,  sat  the  old  grey-bearded,  furrow-faced  Italian 
known  as  the  Marquis.  The  latter  had  extracted  the  usual 
loan  of  thirty  centimes,  and  was  now  consuming  a  momi- 
nette  at  the  lender's  expense.  His  thin,  bony  hands,  every 
line  of  which  all  students  at  Julien's  knew,  so  often  had 
they  sketched  them,  shook  nervously  as  he  deftlv  manu- 
factured a  fresh  cigarette  from  the  screw  of  tobacco  he  had 
taken  from  his  pocket,  and  his  face  had  relaxed  into  a 
smile  owing  to  some  observation  of  the  witty  Irishman. 
His  hair  and  beard  remained  untrimmed,  for  professional 
purposes  \  his  deep-sunken  eyes  had  a  wonderful  pious 
expression,  even  when  he  was  too  intoxicated  to  stagger 
to  his  unknown  home  ;  he  smelt  eternally  of  garlic,  and 
his  clothes  were  so  antique  and  greasy  as  to  be  almost  too 
unwholesome  even  for  Bohemia. 

And  this  was  the  father  of  the  pretty  Fosca,  the  slim- 
waisted  little  shop  assistant  over  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, 
whose  daintv  figure  and  smiling  face  were  so  familiar  to 
every  student  in  the  Quartier. 

His  applications  for  loans  of  thirtv  centimes  had  appa- 
rently been  successful  that  dav,  for  as  he  sat  there  he  was 
in  a  maudlin,  half-intoxicated  condition. 

1  I  tell  you  there's  no  art  in  Paris  nowadavs,'  he  was 
saying  emphatically  to  Teddv,  bending  forward  unevenly 
after  lighting  his  cigarette.  '  Look  at  all  the  duffers  in 
this  year's  Salon  —  Lapaine,  Ondet,  Trombert,  Lepelletier, 
Laurens,  and  all  that  crowd.  Not  one  of  them  can  paint 
a  good  picture.  All  this  impressionist  craze  is  ruining 
art ;  yet  the  critics  are  fostering  it,  well  knowing  that  in 
five  years  the  vogue  will  have  gone  by.' 


BEHIND    NOTRE   DAME  15 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  the  old  Italian's 
words,  and  Teddy   inclined   his   head   in   acquiescence. 

1  Look  at  Ondet's  "  Queen  of  the  Night,"  about  which 
there's  such  a  confounded  fuss  !  The  thing's  perfectly 
absurd,  both  in  colouring  and  treatment.  The  head's  out 
of  drawing,'   the  old   man   continued. 

'  No,  no,'  protested  Teddy,  '  a  bad  picture  certainly,  but 
not  quite  so  bad  as  all  that,  Marquis.  They've  bought  it 
for  the  Luxembourg,  at  any  rate,  and  Ondet  has  arrived.' 

'  I  know  he  has,'  growled  the  Italian.  c  And  only  a 
year  ago  Glenat,  when  he  saw  a  head  he  did  from  my 
model,  told  him  to  go  back  to  Blois  and  grow  roses  —  his 
father's  a  florist  who  supplies  the  Madeleine.' 

c  He'll  paint  them  now,  instead,  and  find  it  more  profit- 
able than  raking  manure,'  Teddy  laughed. 

c  Yes,  ves,'  said  the  Marquis,  impatiently, '  but  alas  !  how 
art  is  degenerating  nowadays!  Dieu  !  half  the  men  in  this 
year's  Salon  wouldn't  have  been  allowed  to  enter  any  of 
the  schools  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago.  These  modern 
men  can  design  advertisement  posters,  or  draw  in  black  and 
white  for  the  so-called  comic  journals,  but  it's  a  sheer 
waste  of  good  material  to  allow  them  to  spoil  canvases. 
Three-quarters  of  the  men  at  present  at  Julien's  would 
earn  more  at  selling  tape  than  in  attempting  to  produce  the 
miserable  sketches  they  call  pictures.  For  example,  there's 
your  friend  and  countryman  Rosmead.  He'll  never  be- 
come an  artist ;   he ' 

1  He's  well  aware  of  that,'  Teddy  snapped,  quickly  in- 
terrupting. The  Marquis  was  on  dangerous  ground,  for  to 
utter  a  word  detrimental  to  either  of  his  two  friends  was  to 
the  O'Donovan  like  the  holding  up  of  a  red  rag  to  a  bull. 
His  quick  Irish  blood  rose  in  a  moment. 

1  Then  why  the  devil  doesn't  he  leave  Paris  ?  ' 

'  Because  he  has  an  attraction  here  in  the  person  of  your 


i6  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

daughter  Fosca,'  answered  Teddy,  mischievously,  well  know- 
ing that  any  mention  of  the  attachment  displeased  him. 
The  Marquis  had  set  his  mind  upon  his  daughter  marrying 
a  man  of  means,  and  not  a  wild,  penniless  student. 

1  Pere  la  Tuile  !  '  Farini  exclaimed,  with  an  angry  gesture, 
using  students'  argot.  c  The  girl's  an  idiot.  I've  told  her 
so  over  and  over  again.  With  her  face  she  can  marry  a 
man  who  can  afford  to  keep  her  properly.  She's  not  the 
kind  of  wife  for  Rosmead.' 

c  What  have  you  to  say  against  him  ? '  inquired  Teddy, 
eyeing  the  Marquis  with  severity.  c  He's  in  a  chronic 
state  of  hard-up  ;  but  isn't  that  the  state  of  all  of  us  ? 
Surely  things  have  not  so  degenerated  that  here,  in  the 
Quartier,  poverty  is  to  be  flung  into  a  man's  face  ?  If  so, 
then  the  first  man  to  suffer  is  yourself,  my  dear  Marquis.' 

The  Italian,  thus  snubbed,  mumbled  some  vague,  indis- 
tinct explanation,  but  his  shifty  eyes  told  the  young  Irish- 
man that  his  companion  was  scarcely  aware  of  what  he  was 
saying,  therefore,  pleading  an  urgent  appointment,  he  rose, 
and  having  paid  the  rough-headed,  unkempt  waiter,  strolled 
airily  out,  shouting  a  merry  farewell  to  his  noisy  fellow-stu- 
dents seated  in  little  groups  around. 

c  The  poor  old  threepenny  Marquis  is  becoming  an  im- 
possible person,'  Teddy  exclaimed  aloud  in  his  rich  Irish 
brogue,  as  he  crossed  the  Place  St.  Michel  towards  the 
bridge.  c  The  idea  of  criticising  Bertie's  work  !  It's  too 
bad.  Nobody  does  that,  because  its  defects  are  so  painfully 
plain.  There's  one  blessing,  the  merry  Rosmead  is  fully 
aware  that  he'd  earn  more  at  painting  shop-fronts  than  at 
painting  pictures,  and  he  certainly  hasn't  turned  amateur 
critic,  like  most  other  failures.  I'll  be  hanged,  however, 
before   Bertie  shall  be  poked  fun  at,  even  by  the  Apostle.' 

On  the  bridge  he  paused  to  light  a  fresh  cigar,  and  as  he 
did  so  the  cathedral  clock  struck  eight. 


BEHIND    NOTRE   DAME  17 

4  Still  a  quarter  of  a  hour  before  meeting  Violette,'  he  said, 
and  leaning  upon  the  iron  balustrade,  he  gazed  into  the  dark, 
swirling  waters  of  the  Seine.  The  dusk  was  fast  deepening 
into  night,  and  from  where  he  stood  the  lie  de  la  Cite  and 
the  quays  were  already  ablaze  with  lights.  c  Strange,'  he 
murmured  aloud.  c  Very  strange  that  Violette  is  so  myste- 
rious, and  will  tell  me  absolutely  nothing.  Whence  she 
comes,  or  whither  she  goes,  I  know  not.  We  meet  over  in 
the  little  garden  there,  behind  Notre  Dame,  for  one  brief 
hour  each  evening;  yet  I  know  nothing  of  her  —  absolutely 
nothing.' 

Teddy's  acquaintance  with  his  divinity  was  certainly  a 
romantic  one.  Two  months  before,  while  taking  a  walk 
one  evening  along  the  exterior  boulevards,  he  saw  her  being 
molested  by  a  ruffianly-looking  beggar,  and  he,  having 
warned  the  fellow  off,  walked  beside  her  and  commenced 
to  chat.  She  thanked  him  with  sweet  dignity,  and  appar- 
ently not  averse  to  his  company,  he  succeeded  in  extract- 
ing from  her  a  promise  to  meet  him  again.  She  kept  the 
appointment,  and  from  that  evening  thev  had  become  close 
friends.  Who  or  what  she  was  had  remained  a  mystery. 
She  was  very  handsome,  fair,  and  aquiline  of  feature,  with 
haughty,  almond-shaped  eves  of  a  curious  light  blue,  very 
arching  dark  brows,  and  a  mouth  like  a  full  crimson  rose. 
Not  quite  Teddy's  ideal,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then  he  had  only 
seen  his   ideal  in  his  dreams. 

So  fascinated  had  he  been  on  the  first  night  he  had  met 
her  that  he  was  not  absolutely  certain  what  she  was  really 
like,  except  that  there  was  a  vestal  lily-whiteness  about  her, 
and  that  she  had  pure,  shy  eves  and  a  face  framed  bv  a  mys- 
tical halo  of  red-brown  hair.  But  when  they  met  the 
next  evening  in  the  quiet  little  garden  between  the  grey  old 
cathedral  and  the  Morgue,  he  was  not  disappointed.  There, 
in  the  fading  sunlight,  he  saw  she  was  undeniably  beautiful. 


18  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

As  they  sat  together  on  the  seat  beneath  the  crumbling 
wall  of  Notre  Dame,  he  told  her  of  himself,  that  he  was  an 
art  student,  one  of  a  luckless,  careless  crowd,  and  pointed 
across  the  river  to  the  dingy  old  house  which  was  his  abode. 
On  her  part,  however,  she  vouchsafed  no  confidences.  She 
was  affable,  pleasant,  light-hearted,  and  laughed  merrily  at 
his  witticisms  ;  but  beyond  telling  him  that  her  name  was 
Violette  she  would  reveal  nothing  as  to  her  identity.  She 
was  evidently  a  girl  of  strong  character,  and  by  her  inde- 
pendence was  no  doubt  used  to  going  about  alone.  Some- 
times he  inclined  to  the  belief  that  she  was  a  music-teacher 
or  governess,  because  of  her  knowledge  of  subjects  of  which 
most  women  are  ignorant ;  but  one  evening  he  had  noticed 
on  her  wrist  a  bracelet  of  fine  diamonds,  and  reflected  that 
such  a  costly  ornament  could  scarcely  be  possessed  by  one 
who  earned  her  living  bv  tuition.  In  manner  and  in  speech 
she  was  refined ;  she  was  always  dressed  quietly,  but  her 
gowns  betrayed  the  cut  and  fit  of  the  fashionable  dressmaker, 
and  she  had  all  the  dignity  and  bearing  of  a  lady. 

Yet  the  mystery  surrounding  her  was  certainly  curious. 
It  puzzled,  perplexed,  and  tantalised  him. 

As  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  whirling  flood  rush- 
ing away  beneath  the  bridge,  he  pondered,  as  he  had  pon- 
dered many  times  during  those  past  two  months.  He,  gay, 
happy,  irresponsible,  and  irrepressible,  loved  her.  That  she 
was  a  ladv  he  felt  confident,  although  her  determination  to 
conceal  her  identity  was  remarkable,  even  suspicious. 

Many  times  when  he  had  walked  at  her  side  along  the 
quays  he  had  tried  by  ingenious  devices  to  ascertain  some- 
thing of  her  past,  but  she  studiously  avoided  all  reference  to 
it.  She  spoke  with  a  polished  Parisian  accent,  and  was 
dainty  and  chic  from  her  pretty  hat,  which  suited  her  so 
admirably,  to  the  point  of  her  high-heeled  many-buttoned 
boots.     There  was  nothing  loud  or  coquettish  in   her  dress, 


BEHIND    NOTRE    DAME  19 

no  inharmonious  colours ;  in  everything  she  exhibited  that 
taste  and  refinement  which  is  the  very  essence  of  good 
breeding. 

A  few  evenings  before,  when  he  had  been  speaking  of 
his  own  life,  of  his  struggles  and  ambitions,  she  had  turned 
to  him,  and  said  quietlv  : 

'  I  know.  I  had  been  told  all  about  you  before  we 
met/ 

1  Who  told  you  ? '  he  inquired  in  quick  surprise.  '  Who 
is  our  mutual  friend  ? ' 

c  No,'  she  answered,  smiling.  c  The  identity  of  my 
informant  is  a  secret.  I  heard  of  your  success  at  the 
painting-school,  of  your  happv  menage,  and  of  the  love 
affair  of  vour   English   compatriot.' 

'You  mean  Bertram  Rosmead,'  he  answered.  'He  ad- 
mires Fosca  Farini,  a  prettv,  black-eved  Italian  girl,  who's 
emploved  at  the  Louvre.  He's  a  good  fellow,  Rosmead  — 
the  very  best  of  good  fellows.' 

She  did  not  reply,  but  had  he  been  watching  her  face 
narrowly,  he  would  have  noticed  that  a  strangely  super- 
cilious expression  played  about  her  lips. 

'  You  will  remember  we  met  him  with  Jean  Potin  in 
the  Rue  Castiglione  the  other  day  ? '   Teddy  went  on. 

'  Ah,  yes,'  she  said  mechanically,  '  I  recollect,'  and  she 
allowed  the  subject  to  drop  without  further  comment. 
She  was  not  enthusiastic  over  his  fellow-students,  and  he 
attributed  it  to  her  natural  dignity.  She,  the  daughter 
of  a  wealthy  house,  had  no  doubt  been  taught  from  child- 
hood to  look  down  upon  those  who  were  careless  in  dress, 
and  whose  habits  were  loose.  She  was  a  patrician,  while 
he  was  a  Bohemian.  Yet  he  loved  her  with  all  the  full 
force  of  his  passion.  Towards  him  she  was  sweet  and 
tender,  allowing  her  tiny,  well-gloved  hand  to  rest  in  his, 
even  though  their  lips  had  never  once  met. 


20  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

On  one  occasion,  when  sitting  together  beneath  the 
trees  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  he  had  seriously  imperilled  his 
position  in  her  good  graces  by  placing  his  arm  around  her 
slim  waist  and  bending  towards  her,  but  with  a  dexterous 
movement  she  had  slipped  from  his  embrace  and  held  up 
her  hand  in  expressive  silence,  with  a  look  of  annoyance 
upon  her  fair  face.  Thus  it  was  that,  although  he  adored 
her,  no  declaration   of  love   had  yet   passed   his   lips. 

To-night,  as  he  stood  watching  the  dark  current  shim- 
mering in  the  lamplight,  he  made  a  firm  resolve  to  tell  her 
the  truth.  No  longer  could  he  bear  the  suspense  which 
for  the  past  two  months  had  been  daily  torturing  him ;  no 
longer  could  he  endure  this  tantalising  mystery  which  sur- 
rounded his  well-beloved.  His  every  thought  in  his  waking 
hours  was  of  her,  of  who  and  what  she  was,  of  her  beauty, 
of  her  present  life,  and  of  her  past.  What  was  it,  he  won- 
dered, that  she  hid  so  carefully  from  his  knowledge  ?  If 
they  became  lovers,  then  no  doubt  she  would  be  induced 
to  confess  to  him.  It  was  the  only  way.  Yes,  he  would 
tell  her  plainly  and  honestly  that  night  that  he  loved  her, 
and  would  afterwards  take  her  over  to  the  Quai  Monte- 
bello  and   show  her  his  abode. 

At  that  instant  somebody  clapped  him  heartily  on  the 
back,  and   a  cheery  voice   cried   in   French  : 

c  Contemplating  making  a  splash,  Bouchon,  eh  ?  We'll 
all  come  and  have  a  look  at  you  when  you're  in  the 
Morgue.      Hurrah  for  County  Cork  !  ' 

The  Bouchon  turned  quickly,  and  realised  that  the  grim 
humour  proceeded  from  one  of  his  reckless  companions, 
who,  walking  arm-in-arm  with  half-a-dozen  others,  was 
evidently  going  forth  into  the  Grand  Boulevards  for  an 
evening's  diversion. 

Teddy  laughed,  and  with  his  quick  Irish  wit  shouted  after 
them : 


BEHIND   NOTRE    DAME  21 

c  See  that  they  ticket  me  sixty-nine  ;  it's  my  lucky 
number.' 

Thus  aroused  from  his  meditations,  he  strolled  on  across 
the  bridge  light  and  airily,  laughing  gaily  to  himself,  his 
hands  stuck  in  the  pockets  of  his  shabby  jacket,  his  long 
cigar  still  in  his  mouth,  his  hat  set  a  trifle  rakishlv  on  his 
head,  for  was  he  not  going  to  keep  the  appointment  with 
Violette  ?  Was  he  not  about  to  tell  her  plainly  how  well 
he  loved  her  ? 

He  still  had  plenty  of  time,  for  she  was  usually  ten  min- 
utes or  so  late  in  keeping  her  appointments,  and  nearly  al- 
ways came  in  an  open  cab,  springing  out  in  breathless  haste, 
laughing  merrily,  and  apologising  for  keeping  him  waiting. 
When  she  left  him  she  always  took  a  conveyance,  giving 
the  driver  the  same  address  each  time,  namely,  the  Place 
de  l'Opera,  in  order  that  he  should  not  follow  and  see 
whither  she  went.  Once  or  twice  he  had  been  sorely 
tempted  to  take  another  cab  and  drive  after  her,  but  she 
had  once  asked  him  not  to  endeavour  to  follow  her,  and 
he  had  given  his  promise.  His  dress,  he  thought,  was  not 
such  as  might  commend  itself  to  her  friends,  and,  loving 
her  as  devoutly  as  he  did,  he  had  perfect  confidence  in  her. 
She  had  a  reason,  no  doubt,  in  all  this  caprice  —  a  reason 
which  would  be  made  plain  some  day. 

As  he  turned  from  the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  sauntering 
slowly  along  the  quay,  he  encountered  his  friend  Dechaume, 
a  long-haired,  pallid  young  man,  whose  mission  in  life  was 
to  write  lyrics  for  the  lower  music  halls  of  the  exterior 
boulevards,  and  who  was  a  notable  personage  at  the  now- 
defunct  Chat  Noir.  Thev  stood  for  some  ten  minutes 
gossiping,  then  he  strode  on  again.  The  quarter  boomed 
forth  before  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  Petit  Pont,  and  he 
had  still  a  good  five  minutes'  walk  before  him.  Therefore, 
knowing  that  he  must  be  late,  he  hurried  forward  at  a  good 


22  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

pace,  crossing  the  wide  Place  before  the  dark,  gloomy 
facade  of  Notre  Dame,  and  proceeding  up  the  narrow, 
dingy  Rue  du  Cloitre  which  skirts  the  cathedral,  he  at 
length  entered  the  little  railed-in  garden  lying  immediately 
behind  the  historic  old  pile.  In  the  daytime  this  leafy  en- 
closure is  alive  with  children,  the  children  of  morbid-minded 
persons  who  delight  in  the  inspection  of  the  bodies  behind 
those  dingy  glass  cases  in  the  Morgue,  and  who  leave 
their  progeny  to  play  while  they  feast  their  eyes  upon  the 
ghastly  dead  in  the  long  low  building  opposite.  In  the 
evening,  however,  the  garden  is  quiet,  peaceful,  and 
deserted. 

Night  had  fallen  now,  a  hot  and  breathless  night  after 
the  stifling  August  day,  and  as  he  entered  the  enclosure, 
walking  with  swinging  gait  along  the  asphalt  path  beneath 
the  trees,  the  statuary  looked  ghostly  and  mysterious  in  the 
deep  shadow.  But  airily  he  strode  along,  humming  to  him- 
self a  popular  march,  and  eager  to  meet  her,  until  turning  at 
last  to  a  path  at  right  angles,  he  came  suddenly  within  sight 
of  the  low  stone  seat  against  the  cathedral  wall  which  was 
their  nightly  trysting-place. 

Yes,  she  was  already  awaiting  him.  He  could  discern 
her  well-known  figure  in  the  dim  light  cast  by  the  lamps  of 
the  cabs  on  the  rank  beyond  the  railings,  and  he  hastened 
towards  her  with  a  glad  greeting  on  his  lips. 

She  was  sitting  at  the  further  end  of  the  seat,  her  head 
sunk  as  if  in  deep  meditation,  so  deep,  indeed,  that  even  his 
voice  did  not  arouse  her. 

c  Violette  !  '  he  cried, l  forgive  me  for  keeping  you  wait- 
ing so  long.      It  shall  not  occur  again.     Forgive  me/ 

But  she  answered  not. 

Surely  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  took  her  gloved 
hand  in  frantic  eagerness,  and  bent  towards  her,  glancing 
into   her  countenance.      Her  eyes,  wide  open,  were   fixed 


BEHIND   NOTRE   DAME  23 

and   staring,  her  face   was  blanched  to  the  lips,  her  white 
glove  was  wet  and  sticky. 

He  raised  her  hand  close  to  his  gaze,  then  stood  speech- 
less in  terror.  There  was  a  dark,  ugly  stain  upon  it  — 
the  stain  of  blood. 

c  Good  God  !  '  he  shrieked  in  wild  alarm.  '  Violette  ! 
Speak  to  me,  Violette  ! ' 

Her  head  fell  back  inert  and  helpless  upon  his  arm, 
and  as  he  peered  into  her  wild,  glaring  eyes,  they  sldwly 
assumed  a  look  of  inexpressible  agony.  In  that  instant 
a  strange  glance  of  eager  recognition  overspread  her  hag- 
gard countenance,  and  quickly  he  clasped  his  strong  arms 
tenderly  about  her.  The  muscles  of  her  face  slowly  re- 
laxed, and  she  shuddered  in  his  embrace. 

Next  instant  he  detected  the  terrible  truth.  Her  cool 
lace-trimmed  blouse  of  pale  heliotrope  silk  was  soaked  with 
blood  issuing;  from  her  breast.  There  was  a  wound  there, 
just  above  the  heart. 

Her  white  lips  moved  in  a  frantic,  desperate  effort  to 
speak,  but  her  tongue  refused  to  articulate.  Her  slight 
frame  was  again  shaken  by  the  convulsive  shivering,  a 
sudden  paralysis  seized  her,  then,  with  a  long,  deep-drawn 
sigh,  the  light  faded  from  her  blanched  face,  her  heart 
ceased  its  feeble  beating,  and  next  second  her  body  lay  in 
his  arms  chilly,  rigid,  still. 

He  cried  aloud  to  her  in  his  agonised  despair,  but  she 
was  silent,  her  great  blue  eyes,  those  wondrous  eyes  that 
had  held  him  beneath  their  spell,  gazing  into  space,  fixed 
and  fast  glazing. 

Violette,  his  dainty,  mysterious,  unknown  love,  was 
dead. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    TRAIL    OF    THE    UNKNOWN 

O'Donovan's  shouts  attracted  the  cabman  beyond  the  iron 
railings,  and  very  quickly  a  couple  of  policemen  appeared 
upon  the  scene.  For  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  scene  of 
wild  excitement  within  the  quiet  little  garden  ;  then,  after 
a  cursory  examination,  a  stretcher  was  brought  from  the 
Morgue  over  the  way,  the  body  of  the  unknown  girl  placed 
upon  it  and  conveyed  away  to  the  House  of  the  Dead, 
while  Teddy  was  arrested  and  escorted  to  the  police  office 
attached  to  the  mortuary,  where,  after  some  little  delay,  he 
was  searched  and  closely  questioned. 

The  blood  upon  his  hands  was  regarded  with  consider- 
able suspicion  by  the  police  commissary,  or  the  quart  cTaeil 
as  he  is  known  to  the  students,  but  owing  to  the  fortu- 
nate circumstances  of  a  workman  having  seen  him  enter 
the  garden,  and  a  cabman  swearing  that  he  had  heard  the 
report  like  that  of  a  revolver  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before,  he  experienced  little  difficulty  in  establishing  his 
innocence  of  the  crime. 

News  rapidly  spreading  that  the  body  of  a  murdered 
woman  had  been  brought  there,  and  that  the  assassin  had 
been  caught,  quickly  caused  a  great  crowd  to  assemble 
around  the  Morgue,  awaiting  the  exposure  of  the  corpse, 
and  eager  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  murderer  when  he 
came  forth  in  custody.  Meanwhile,  however,  the  body  of 
poor  Violette    had    been   searched,  and    absolutely    nothing 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   UNKNOWN  25 

<vas  discovered  upon  her  which  would  lead  to  her  identity. 
She  wore  no  jewellery,  and  in  her  purse,  which  contained 
about  ten  francs  in  silver  and  copper,  there  was  no  card 
or  scrap  of  anything  of  value  as  a  clue. 

The  heartbroken  student's  story  of  how  carefully  she 
had  concealed  her  identity  was  listened  to  rather  incredu- 
lously by  the  police,  who  carefully  made  notes  as  to  dates 
and  places.  Then  there  was  a  long  pause.  The  affair 
was  certainly  veiled  in  mystery,  but  it  was  apparent  from 
the  conversation  of  the  three  astute  detectives  present  that 
they  believed  her  to  be  a  lady  moving  in  good  society. 

1  You  say  she  generally  took  a  cab  when  she  left  you,' 
one  of  the  officers  exclaimed  at  length,  addressing  O'Dono- 
van.    '  Do  you  think  you  could  identify  any  of  the  cabmen  ? ' 

'  Yes,  one,'  he  answered,  after  a  few  seconds'  reflection. 
At  that  moment  it  suddenly  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
from  these  men  who  drove  her  so  often  he  could  long  ago 
have  found  out  where  she  went.  '  There's  one  man,  stout 
and  white-haired,  who  drove  her  several  times,'  he  added. 

'  Where  was  he  stationed  ? '  the  detective  inquired  eagerly. 

'Just  opposite  here.     The  rank  outside  the  garden.' 

'  Describe  him.' 

c  Fat,  red-faced,  short  white  hair,'  O'Donovan  replied. 

c  Lepine,'  observed  the  detective,  decisively,  and  turning 
to  a  subordinate,  he  told  him  to  go  out  and  find  the  man 
immediately. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  stout,  ruddy-faced  cab-driver,  a 
typical  Parisian  cocher,  was  ushered  into  the  bare,  business- 
like police-office.  He  had  just  returned  from  taking  a 
fare  to  Passy  when  the  police  hailed  him,  and  knowing 
nothing  of  the  tragic  affair  which  had  happened  during  his 
absence  from  the  rank,  wondered  what  offence  he  had 
committed. 

'Pierre   Lepine,  number   2,734  —  eh?'  sharply  inquired 


26  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

the  official  who,  seated  at  the  table,  was  engaged  in  the 
investigation. 

c  Ouiy  m'sieur.' 

1  I  want  you  to  view  the  body  of  a  lady,  and  say  if  you 
recognise  her.      Pinson,  go  with  him.' 

The  cab-driver,  relieved  to  find  that  he  had  not  con- 
travened any  of  the  thousand  and  one  rules  by  which  the 
police  bind  the  public  conveyances  of  Paris,  followed  his 
guide  into  the  adjoining  room. 

A  few  moments  later  he  returned,  and  stated  to  his 
interrogator  that  the  dead  lady  was  well-known  to  him 
by   sight. 

1  Where  did  you  see  her  ? '  the  official  asked. 

'  She  used  to  meet  this  gentleman  nightly,'  indicating 
Teddy,  'in  the  little  garden  over  the  way.' 

1  Anything  else  ?  ' 

c  I  drove  her  once  or  twice.' 

1  Where  to  ? ' 

The  man  hesitated,  as  if  reflecting. 

4  To  several  places,  m'sieur.' 

1  Name  one.' 

1  To  the  Place  de  l'Opera.' 

c  What  number  ? ' 

4  She  descended  opposite  the  Cafe  de  l'Opera  and  walked 
away.' 

'  She  met  nobody  ?  ' 

1  Nobody.' 

1  Describe  another  instance  of  her  riding  in  your  cab,' 
the  official  said,  in  the  same  dry,  business-like  tones  he 
had  used  throughout.  To  him  the  investigation  of  murder 
was  of  almost  everyday  occurrence. 

c  One  night,  about  a  week  ago,  she  left  the  gentleman 
at  the  gate  of  the  Rue  du  Cloitre  and  told  me  to  drive  to 
the  Place  de  l'Opera.      When,  however,  we  got  as   far  as 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   UNKNOWN  27 

the  Palais  Roval  she  altered  her  mind,  and  ordered  me  to 
take  her  to  the  Place  Pigalle/ 

'  Well  ?  ' 

c  She  alighted  at  the  corner  of  the  Place,  and  I  watched 
her  enter  the  Rat  Mort.' 

'  The  Rat  Mort  ! '  exclaimed  the  official,  raising  his  eve- 
brows  and  looking  sharply  at  the  cabman.  c  Are  you  quite 
certain  of  this  ? ' 

c  Absolutely,  m'sieur.' 

c  You  drove  away,  I  suppose  ? ' 

1  Yes,'  the  man  replied.  Then,  after  reflection,  he  added, 
c  The  only  other  time  I  recollect  driving  her  was  one  night, 
after  telling  me  in  the  gentleman's  hearing  to  take  her  to  the 
Place  de  l'Opera,  she  drove  to  an  address  in  the  Boulevard 
Magenta,  but  I  forget  the  number.  She  called  there  for  a 
young  man,  a  foreigner,  English  or  German,  and  I  drove 
them  both  to  a  large  house  in  the  Avenue  du  Trocadero. 
They  did  not  speak  French,  so  I  could  not  overhear  what 
they  said.  The  man  was  about  twenty-five,  tall,  thin,  well- 
dressed,  evidentlv  a  gentleman.  I  believe  they  had  quar- 
relled, but  couldn't  say  for  certain.' 

c  What  led  you  to  believe  they  had  quarrelled  ? ' 

'Well,  I  thought  so  by  their  manner,' the  man  answered. 
'  The  ladv  seemed  highly  indignant  and  displeased.' 

1  Would  you  be  able  to  recognise  her  companion  again  ? ' 
inquired  the  official,  suddenly  interested. 

1  Yes,  but  not  the  house  I  drove  them  to.  I  forget  the 
number.' 

c  Don't  vou  think  vou  would  recognise  either  house  —  if 
you  tried  very  hard  ? '  insinuated  his  interrogator. 

cNo,  m'sieur,'  replied  the  man,  twisting  his  hat  in  his 
hand.  c  I'm  ready  to  go  with  the  police,  however,  and  try 
and  identifv  the  man.      I  believe  he  was  English.' 

The  police  official,  turning  to  the  O'Donovan,  said : 


28  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

c  You  mentioned,  I  think,  that  this  lady  you  knew  as 
Violette  spoke  English.' 

8  Yes,'  Teddy  replied.  c  She  spoke  it  so  well  that,  save 
for  one  or  two  accentuated  words,  she  might  easily  have 
been  taken  for  an  Englishwoman.' 

1  You  are  English,  and  could  of  course  detect  whether  or 
not  she  was  a  compatriot.' 

'  She  was  not  English,'  Teddy  replied  promptly.  c  No 
doubt  she  was  a  Parisienne.  Her  French  had  not  the  slight- 
est provincial  accent.' 

c  The  fact  that  she  would  not  reveal  her  real  name,  or 
explain  where  she  lived,  or  who  she  was,  handicaps  us 
severely,'  the  official  observed,  blotting  the  large  sheet  of 
yellow  official  foolscap  whereon  he  had  been  writing  the 
depositions  of  the  cabman.  c  That  some  deep,  inscrutable 
mystery  lies  behind  all  this  seems  evident.  We  must  try 
if  wTe  cannot  discover  some  clue  to  her  identity.  When 
the  body  is  exhibited  somebody  may  come  forward  and  tell  us 
something.      At  present  the  facts  are  indeed  very  puzzling.' 

'  But  her  death,'  the  young  student  exclaimed  huskily. 
1  It  is  terrible  —  terrible.' 

1  Yes,'  the  official  said,  in  a  more  svmpathetic  tone.  l  A 
great  blow  to  you,  no  doubt.  From  the  appearance  of  the 
wound  she  was  evidently  shot  at  close  quarters,  probably 
while  sitting  on  the  seat  awaiting  you.  It  is  certainly 
strange  that  only  one  man,  a  cabman,  should  have  heard 
the  shot,  and  to  him  it  apparentlv  never  occurred  that  it 
had  been  fired  in  the  garden.  The  assassin  must  have  ap- 
proached her,  held  her  in  conversation,  and  before  she  be- 
came aware  of  her  danger  whipped  out  a  revolver  and 
emptied  one  barrel  full  into  her  breast.  Her  blouse  is 
singed,  showing  how  near  the  weapon  must  have  been  held.' 

1  If  1  had  not  been  late  for  the  appointment,  her  life  would 
have  been  saved,'  the  young  man  observed  despondently. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   UNKNOWN  29 

c  No  doubt,'  answered  the  official.  l  But  in  such  cases 
regrets  are  useless.  Our  duty  is  first  to  obtain  her  identi- 
fication, and  then  to  try  and  find  the  assassin.  It  appears, 
however,  that  your  information  cannot  assist  us  in  the 
least,  therefore  I  think  there  is  no  further  need  for  you  to 
remain.     We  have  your  address.' 

1  But  the  man  she  met  in  the  Boulevard  Magenta  after 
leaving  me.      Cannot  he  be  found  ? '  O'Donovan  asked. 

c  If  he  is  in  Paris,  he  will  no  doubt  be  discovered.  If, 
however,  he  is  a  foreigner,  English  or  German,  as  seems 
most  likely,  he  mav  have  left  France  bv  this  time,'  the 
official   replied.      '  We    shall    do    our   best   to   find   him.' 

c  Then  I  am  no  longer  wanted  ? '  Teddy  blurted 
forth. 

4  No.  Pinson,  show  this  gentleman  out,'  and  a  few 
moments  later  O'Donovan  found  himself  among  the  eager, 
struggling  crowd  who  were  fighting  wTith  one  another  to 
obtain  a  glance  at  the  face  of  his  murdered  love.  The 
scene  was  one  of  wild  excitement,  the  surging  multitude, 
which  nearlv  blocked  the  roadwav,  jostling  each  other  in 
their  efforts  to  file  past  the  great  dingv  window  looking 
like  an  emptv  shop-front,  bevond  which  the  body  was 
exposed  to  the  public  gaze  for  identification.  The  young 
student  struggled  to  get  free  of  the  crowd  and  breathe 
fresh  air,  but  overwhelmed  bv  the  press  about  him,  he  was 
forced  on  close  to  the  window.  He  saw  that  they  had 
wrapped  the  bodv  in  a  coarse  brown  blanket,  leaving  only 
the  face  exposed,  that  white,  sweet  face  that  he  loved  so 
well.  At  her  feet,  close  to  the  glass,  were  spread  her 
dress,  her  corsets,  and  her  underlinen,  while  upon  a  black 
board  at  her  feet  had  been  scrawled  in  chalk  the  number 
corresponding  with  the  number  in  the  police-register  of 
unknowns.  For  three  days  she  must  remain  there,  in  full 
view   of  that    vulgar  jeering  crowd,  then,  if  unidentified, 


30  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

would    be    buried    in    a    nameless    grave    beside    suicides, 
paupers,  and  the  social  wreckage  of  Paris. 

As  he  was  pressed  forward  to  this  window,  which  was 
the  centre  of  attraction,  coarse,  brutal  comments  on  every 
side  fell  upon  his  ear.  The  report  had  spread  that  he  was 
the  murderer,  that  he,  her  lover,  had  been  taken  red- 
handed,  and  that  she  was  well-known  at  the  El  Dorado. 
He  tried  to  turn  back,  but  the  crowd,  not  recognising  him, 
pushed  him  forward,  and,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  he 
saw,  mingling  with  that  morbid  mob,  three  of  the  detec- 
tives who  had  been  present  at  his  interrogation.  With 
that  promptness  characteristic  of  the  Paris  police,  they 
had  already  commenced  their  investigations,  and  were  now 
jostling  with  the  crowd  with  eyes  and  ears  open  ready  for 
any  chance  remark  that  might  fall  from  the  lips  of  those 
who  came  to  inspect  the  body.  For  the  assassin  the  body 
of  his  victim  exercises  a  curious  magnetic  influence.  He 
is  drawn  towards  it  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  gloat  over 
his  crime,  and  times  without  number  the  murderer  has 
been  arrested  while  standing  before  that  great  window, 
fascinated  by  the  dead  face  before  him.  For  that  reason, 
whenever  the  body  of  a  murdered  person  is  exposed  in  the 
Morgue,  the  place  swarms  with  detectives. 

O'Donovan,  his  brain  awhirl  by  the  swift  and  crushing 
blow  which  had  fallen  upon  him,  fought  his  way  out  into 
the  road,  and  stood  for  a  moment  breathing  the  fresh  night 
air.  The  jeering  multitude,  the  sickly  gas  lights,  the  cold, 
still  face  of  his  dead  beloved,  held  him  like  some  terrible 
nightmare,  and  he  gazed  back  at  the  House  of  the  Dead 
shuddering.  Before  him,  in  that  dark  little  garden  oppo- 
site, Violette,  his  mysterious  unknown,  had  been  foully 
done  to  death  even  while  he  had  stood  idly  gossiping  with 
the  poet  Dechaume.  A  great  shudder  swept  through  him. 
The  thought  held  him  stupefied,  paralysed.      He  now  felt 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   UNKNOWN  31 

such  bitterness  of  heart  that  he  could  no  longer  remain  in 
Paris,  and  staggering  forward,  started  oft*  to  walk  straight 
before  him,  without  knowing  why  or  whither. 

In  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine  he  raised  his  eyes. 
His  surroundings  surprised  him.  Never  before  had  he  paid 
attention  to  the  magnificent  shops  open  to  the  full  light,  the 
motley  tints  upon  the  house-fronts,  the  glaring  posters,  the 
lighted  kiosks,  and  the  mighty  traffic  in  the  roadway  and  on 
the  asphalted  pavement.  Cafes,  wine-shops,  and  restaurants 
flared  ;  the  facade  of  Olympia  was  aglow  with  a  thousand 
tiny  lamps  ;  running  newsmen  were  crying  the  latest  edi- 
tions of  the  scurrilous  gutter-journals  ;  while  painted  women, 
with  skirts  held  in  mock-modesty,  glanced  interrogatively  at 
every  man  who  passed.  It  was  a  strange,  bustling,  pleasure- 
seeking  world,  this  world  of  Paris.  How  stupefying  and 
torturing  it  all  was  ! 

From  every  cafe  the  tables  overflowed  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  the  customers  sat  with  bock  or  mazagran  enjoy- 
ing the  cool  air  after  the  blazing,  breathless  day.  From 
Olympia,  as  he  passed,  came  the  strains  of  music  and 
the  strident  voice  of  some  female  artist  singing  '  C'qui 
gna  noilien  ?  ' ;  around  him  on  every  side  a  universal 
longing  for  gaiety,  ease,  and  gratification  of  every  de- 
sire seemed  to  spread,  and  away  before  him  shone  like 
moons  the  great  globes  of  the  electric  lights  in  the  Place 
de  l'Opera. 

The  spot  he  was  approaching  brought  back  to  him  recol- 
lections of  Violette.  He  paused  on  the  kerb  and  asked 
himself,  irritated  and  wondering,  why  he  was  there.  He, 
gay  romanlchel  that  he  was,  had  been  carried  on  by  his 
gloomy  reverie,  and  had  no  knowledge  of  having  traversed 
the  many  streets  between  the  lie  de  la  Cite  and  the  boule- 
vards ;  he  had  been  utterlv  unconscious  of  everything  but 
the   one   deep,  poignant  grief  that  had  overwhelmed   him. 


32  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

He  was  heart-sick,  tired  of  that  world  of  want  and  crime, 
of  wealth  and  vice,  of  joy  and  bitterness.  In  that  moment 
his  emotion  came  to  a  crisis,  and  he  distressfully  pondered 
as  to  whither  he  should  go,  now  that  all  his  hopes  had  been 
shattered. 

c  Home,  yes,'  he  murmured  at  last.  '  I'll  go  home  and 
tell  them  both.  At  least  I  shall  have  their  sympathy,'  and 
with  heavy  feet  and  tumultuous  brain  he  turned  back 
towards  the  lVIadeleine,  jostling  with  the  foot-passengers, 
and  retracing  his  steps  towards  the  Seine. 

Bertram  and  Jean  had  eaten  their  frugal  repast  at  Mother 
Gery's  and  had  returned,  when  he  entered  slowly,  his  face 
white  and  scared. 

'  Dieu  !  '  cried  the  young  Breton,  the  first  to  notice  him. 
c  What  has  happened  ?  ' 

The  Bouchon,  the  gay,  reckless  painter  whose  burly  form 
was  so  familiar  to  everybody  in  the  '  Boul.  Mich.,'  staggered 
to  the  old  wooden  armchair,  sank  into  it,  and  remained  for 
a  long  time  in  silence,  with  bent  head,  despairing,  heart- 
broken. He  had  an  unbearable  sense  of  being  crushed, 
overwhelmed  in  the  confusion  of  his  distress,  and  the  life 
throbbing  in  him  was  wrought  to  an  intolerable  fever.  His 
body  racked  him  with  the  over-consciousness  of  itself, 
and  for  awhile  thought  forbore  him  in  the  physical  relief 
of  pain.  Both  men  stood  before  him,  alarmed  and  sur- 
prised, demanding  to  know  what  had  occurred ;  but  not 
until  they  had  repeated  their  inquiries  many  times  did  he 
speak. 

c  She  is  dead,'  he  said  simply,  in  trembling  voice. 

1  She  —  who  ?  —  your  Violette  ? '  asked  Rosmead,  amazed. 

c  Yes,'  he  answered  hoarsely  ;   c  she's  been  murdered  ?  ' 

c  Murdered  !  '  both  men  gasped. 

1  I  found  her  —  two  hours  ago  —  dving,  shot  through  the 
heart,'  the  young  Irishman  explained  brokenly,  his  gaze  still 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE   UNKNOWN  33 

fixed  upon   the  ragged   carpet   from   which  the  pattern  had 
years  ago  disappeared. 

At  first  his  companions  were  incredulous,  but  presently, 
in  broken  tones  and  disjointed  sentences,  he  told  them  how 
he  had  discovered  her,  how  he  had  been  arrested  as  the  mur- 
derer, and  the  investigation  that  had  followed.  He  related 
the  cabman's  story,  and  when  he  described  how  his  well- 
beloved  had  gone  that  night  to  the  Rat  Mort,  Jean  and 
Bertram  exchanged  meaning  glances.  The  young  Breton 
remembered  their  conversation  earlier  in  the  evening,  and 
fell  to  wondering  whether,  after  all,  Rosmead  knew  more  of 
her  than  he  admitted.  It  was  curious,  to  say  the  least,  that 
he  should  have  suggested  such  an  imputation,  and  still 
stranger  that  his  suspicion  should  be  so  quickly  borne  out 
by  such  indisputable  evidence. 

O'Donovan  concluded  at  last,  setting  his  teeth  firmly  to 
prevent  tears  escaping  him,  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  in  an 
attitude  of  blank  despair.  The  hearts  of  his  two  firm 
friends  had  gone  out  in  sympathy,  even  though  neither  had 
approved  of  their  friend's  acquaintance  with  the  fair  un- 
known. There  certainly  had  been  an  element  of  romance 
in  it ;  but  alas  !  the  romance  had  ended  in  a  dire,  dismal 
tragedy. 

4  Extraordinary  !  '  Rosmead  remarked,  bewildered,  when 
his  friend  had  concluded.  '  What  object,  I  wonder,  could 
she  have  had  in  concealing  all  her  movements  so  carefully  ? 
Her  motive  was  a  strong  one,  without  doubt.' 

c  She  may  have  been  married,'  hazarded  Jean ;  c  and, 
like  many  another  woman,  did  not  wish  her  lover  to 
know.' 

This  certainly  seemed  a  natural  solution  of  the  problem, 
and  all  three  discussed  it,  Rosmead  inclining  to  the  matter- 
of-fact  theory  that  the  man  she  had  met  in  the  Boulevard 
Magenta  was  actually  her  husband,  and   he,  watching  her 

3 


34  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

keeping   her  tryst  with  Teddy,  had  been  seized  with  jeal- 
ousy, approached,  and  shot  her. 

O'Donovan  let  them  talk,  but  said  nothing.  He  looked 
at  them  gravely,  but  saw  them  not ;  he  only  saw  the  white- 
ness, the  wanness  of  a  face  set  in  red-brown  hair,  with 
stony  eyes  that  stared  out  blindly. 


CHAPTER    IV 

FOSCA 

Weeks  passed,  and  what  is  called  c  all  Paris '  —  women  of 
society,  politicians,  financiers,  and  writers  —  were  returning 
from  Trouville,  Arcachon,  Royat,  or  Etretat,  where  the 
season  had  ended.  There  had  been  a  lull  in  political  scan- 
dals, therefore  the  papers,  especially  those  sensational  boule- 
vard journals  which  are  hawked  at  the  cafes,  had  been 
full  of  the  c  Mystery  of  Notre  Dame.'  The  body  of  poor 
Violette,  however,  remaining  unidentified,  had,  after  being 
photographed,  been  buried  in  a  nameless  grave  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  municipality,  and  so  the  strange  affair  had  be- 
come numbered  with  the  many  mysteries  of  the  City  of 
Pleasure. 

The  police,  of  which  no  more  astute  detectors  of  crime 
exist  than  those  at  that  time  controlled  by  Monsieur  Goron, 
had  exerted  every  effort  to  obtain  knowledge  of  who  or 
what  she  was,  but  without  avail.  So  careful  had  she  been 
to  conceal  her  identity  that  not  even  the  cleverest  detectives 
in  Paris  could  discover  a  single  clue. 

At  first  poor  Teddv  remained  crushed,  inert,  and  melan- 
choly. The  ashes  of  the  past  lav  thick  upon  his  honest 
heart.  He  was  altogether  a  creature  of  habit.  He  could 
not  break  out  of  old  ways  as  other  men  did  with  that  superb 
dash  that  conquered  the  prizes  of  life  ;  he  sat  prisoned 
within  himself,  brooding  ever  over  his  grief,  even  though  he 
strove  to  laugh  as  airily  as  in  those  happy  days  gone  by. 


36  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

Violette,  whose  sweet  face  had  charmed  him  so,  had  gone 

out  of  his  life,  and   he  was  left  lonelv  and   sad  to  nurse  his 
*  j 

sorrow,  and  to  ponder  on  what  might  have  been.  Delib- 
erately, weakly,  he  drifted  before  the  scudding  hours, 
regretting  with  an  agony  of  regret,  ever  enveloped  in  a 
growing  bitterness  and  desolation.  Thus,  in  that  room 
high  up  above  the  Seine,  the  few  weeks  passed  in  a  quiet- 
ness that  wore  the  air  of  tranquillitv.  Rosmead  and  Jean 
worked  steadily  on  at  their  easels,  looking  at  each  other 
from  behind  a  screen  of  sorrow,  and  poor  Teddy  was  com- 
placent, calm,  serious,  smileless,  spending  hours  smoking  and 
pondering  in  that  old  armchair,  the  wood  of  which  was 
black  and  polished  by  the  generations  of  students  who  had 
used  it.  It  was  only  now  that  he  perceived  the  loneliness 
in  which  every  soul  must  sit. 

At  last,  however,  his  two  friends,  after  many  futile 
attempts,  succeeded  in  arousing  him.  There  was  work  to 
do  —  yes,  work;  it  was  a  narcotic;  it  would  make  him 
sleep,  it  would  make  him  forget.  So  one  morning  he  rose, 
took  a  fresh  canvas,  and  started  a  fresh  picture.  Into  his 
work  he  threw  his  whole  energies,  and  though  he  never  for- 
got that  strangelv  romantic  and  tragic  incident  in  the  little 
garden  behind  Notre  Dame,  he  gradually  went  forth  again  of 
an  evening  among  his  old  friends,  to  Mother  Gery's,  Father 
Gros's,  or  that  little  cafe  known  as  '  The  Monkey's  '  half- 
way up  the  c  Boul.  Mich.,'  where  the  students,  mostly  from 
the  medical  schools,  were  in  the  habit  of  nightly  assem- 
bling. Teddy's  sorrow  was  an  open  secret  in  Bohemia, 
and  in  that  curious,  unique  little  world  all  sympathised  with 
him,  though  never  once  was  the  strange  affair  referred  to 
in  his  hearing. 

Meanwhile  his  idleness  had  given  place  to  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  unwonted  industry.  He  worked  hard,  and  worked 
well.      His  picture  was  a  quaint  piece  of  fancy,  full  of  in- 


FOSCA 


37 


vention  and  varied  detail,  representing  a  nude  figure  read- 
ing. When  finished,  it  showed  a  high  level  of  technical 
achievement  and  vigour  of  handling  which  at  once  placed 
him  far  above  his  fellows.  It  possessed,  too,  the  qualities 
of  glowing  and  transparent  colour,  and  fell  short  of  real 
mastery  onlv  because  it  lacked  something  of  that  sensitive- 
ness in  the  explanation  of  form  and  texture  which  alone 
can  give  to  flesh-painting   the   right  type  of  beauty. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  September, 
Fosca  Farini  left  the  magasin,  crossed  the  Petit  Pont,  and 
ascending  the  four  long  flights  of  worn  and  dirty  stairs 
which  led  to  the  abode  of  the  Bohemian  trio,  burst  into 
their  room  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  on  a  winter's  day. 

1  Here  I  am,  as  usual,'  she  cried,  laughing  gaily.  '  Kisses 
for  all  of  you.' 

'  And  a  big  one,  the  biggest  of  b'ecots^  for  Bertram  —  eh  ? ' 
Jean  said,  retreating  from  his  easel  a  few  paces,  and  holding 
his  head  on  one  side  to  contemplate  the  effect. 

1  Yes,'  she  answered,  with  a  careless  air,  as  she  tossed 
her  sunshade  and  gloves  upon  the  old  frayed  couch  bv  the 
window.  c  The  very  biggest.'  And  Rosmead,  his  face 
beaming  with  happiness,  sprang  from  the  armchair  where 
he  had  been  lazily  reading,  and  grasped  her  tinv  hand  in 
glad  welcome. 

She  was  neat  and  dainty,  with  a  well-formed  figure,  a 
slim  waist,  and,  although  of  Italian  parentage,  possessed 
that  easv,  swinging  gait  so  characteristic  of  the   Parisienne, 

.•'000  ; 

a  curious  freedom  of  limb  that  was  all  her  own.  Dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  with  a  complexion  which  plainly  be- 
trayed her  Southern  blood,  she  was  of  an  odd,  particular 
beauty  that  was  as  indescribable  and  as  fugitive  as  the 
scent  of  a  flower.  Her  face  was  handsome  in  its  splendid 
correction  of  line  and  colour,  and  her  eves  were  of  that 
brilliant  lustre,  which  caused  her  to  be  admired,  even  when 


38  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

habited  in  her  plain  black  gown,  with  its  severe  little  collar 
and  cuffs  tied  with  black  ribbon.  Her  youth  having  been 
spent  with  the  Marquis  and  his  ailing  spouse  in  Bohemia, 
she  cared  little  for  the  ordinary  conventions,  and  con- 
tinually shocked  her  fellow-assistants  with  her  outspoken 
speech,  her  high  spirits,  and  her  inconvenient  enthusiasm ; 
yet,  with  it  all,  she  was  essentially  shrewd  and  clear-eyed, 
and  not  to  be  led  into  excess. 

c  Hulloa  ! '  Teddy  cried,  airily  looking  across  from  his 
easel.  '  What,  another  new  dress,  Fosca  ?  You  look 
charming.' 

'  My  first  duty  is  to  be  charming,  my  dear  Teddy,'  she 
answered  gaily.  '  I  might  also  try  to  be  original,  you 
know.  But  it  isn't  good  form  for  any  of  us  girls  to  do 
anything  that  we  can't  do  becomingly.  A  thing  is  only 
indecent  when  it's  ugly ;  but  everything  that  is  ugly  is 
indecent.  And  excessive  goody-goody  is  indecent,  because 
—  well,  because  it  unbecomes  your  neighbours.' 

The  three  men  laughed.  Her  glow  and  sparkle  made 
Ltr  strangely  radiant,  and  as  she  stood  before  the  easels, 
contemplating  the  progress  made  with  the  pictures  since 
her  last  visit,  a  week  before,  she  observed  that  the  Bouchon 
had  been  commendably  diligent,  but  that  her  lover  had 
indulged   in   his  usual  laziness. 

c  I've  been  reading,'  Rosmead  said,  standing  beside  her. 

'  Yes,  always  reading  horribles  and  things,'  the  pretty 
Italian  pouted.     c  Why  don't  you  paint,  like  Teddy  ? ' 

There  was  an  awkward  pause. 

c  Because  I  can't,'  her  lover  answered  at  last.  c  I'm 
one  of  the  failures.' 

c  Failures  ! '  echoed  his  vivacious  love.  '  A  man  should 
never  admit  that  he's  vanquished.' 

c  I  don't,'  Rosmead  answered  airily.  c  I  merely  frankly 
declare  that  I  made  a   mistake  in  taking  up   a   profession 


FOSCA  39 

for  which  I  had  absolutely  no  aptitude.'  Then,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  added,  c  Now  that  you've  cor- 
nered me,  I'll  tell  you  all  a  secret.  Of  late  I've  been 
trying   to  write  poetry.' 

1  Poetry  !  '  they  cried  in  surprise,  while  Teddy,  turning 
on  his  stool,  his  palette  still  upon  his  thumb,  and  a  caporal 
between  his  lips,  said  severely,  c  By  what  right  have  you 
secreted  from  us  this  most  important  and  entertaining  piece 
of  intelligence  ?  So  it 's  the  Poet  Rosmead  now,  is  it  ? 
You'll  have  to  grow  your  back  hair  a  bit  longer,  old 
chap,  before   anybody  will  take  you  seriously.' 

1  Well,  would  you  like  to  hear  one  ? '  the  young  English- 
man asked.  '  It's  in  French,  of  course,'  and  then,  in 
response  to  their  enthusiastic  demands,  he  took  from  be- 
tween the  leaves  of  a  book  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  in 
a  rather  uncertain  voice,  read  from  it  the  pencilled  lines 
of  a  madrigal  as  follows  :  — 

Belle,  vous  croyez  que  j1  ignore 
Pourquoi  chaque  matin  Paurore, 

A  son  reveil, 
Couvre  le  sol  d'une  rosee 
Aux  perles  d'opale  irisee, 
O     vient  se  mirer  le  soleil. 

Belle,  si  la  rosee  inonde 
La  vieille  terre  de  son  onde 

Aux  sept  couleurs, 
C'est  qu'en  vous  voyant  si  jolie 
L'aube  tombe  en  melancolie 
Et  de  depit  verse  des  pleurs. 

c  Excellent  !  Bravo  ! '  they  cried,  but  Jean,  who  had 
read  widely  before  coming  to  Paris,  and  whose  opinion  on 
literary  matters  was  generally  sought,   said : 

4  You  must  alter  your  style  a  little.  It  smacks  too  much 
of  Xavier  Privas.' 


40  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

'And  you  must  be  a  trifle  more  immoral  if  you  want 
to  succeed  as  a  fin-de-siecle  poet,'  Teddv  chimed  in,  laugh- 
ing. "  If  a  poet  isn't  naughty  nowadays,  nobody  reads 
him.' 

4 1  think  it's  beautiful,'  declared  Fosca.  c  I  never 
dreamt  that  Bertram  was  a  poet.  And  fancy  writing 
French   like   that,  when   he's   an   Englishman.' 

1  You  forget,'  said  her  lover,  '  that  mv  mother  was 
French,  and  that  I  learnt  the  Parisian  accent  at  her  knee.' 

c  Then  you've  absolutely  given  up  art ?  '  inquired  the 
dark-eyed  girl,  sitting  upon  the  edge  of  the  plain  deal  table, 
littered  with  his  books  and  newspapers. 

'  Yes,'  he  replied.  '  Look  at  my  work,'  and  he  pointed 
to  the  canvas  upon  his  easel,  now  quite  drv  and  dustv,  for 
it  had  not  been  touched  for  a  fortnight.  '  Are  its  defects 
not  sufficient  to  show  that  I'm  merely  wasting  time  r 
I've  idled  long  enough.  I  must  work  now  —  or  starve,' 
he  added  bitterly. 

'  But  will  poetry  pay  ?  '  Fosca  queried.  She  was  a 
light-hearted,  brainless  butterfly,  but  in  her  graver  moments 
could  be  terribly  serious. 

cNo,'  answered  Teddy,  decisively.  'Poetry  don't  pay. 
If  you've  got  a  private  income,  then  write  verse ;  if  you 
haven't,  then,  by  attempting  poetry,  you  are  taking  your 
first  step  on  the  shortest  cut  to   the   workhouse.' 

Rosmead,  thoughtful  and  silent,  was  convinced  that 
his  friend  spoke  the  truth.  All  the  poets  he  had  known, 
with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Dechaume,  the  gross  ob- 
scenity of  whose  verses  had  brought  him  into  notoriety, 
were  terribly  poor.  This  truth  had  been  forced  upon  him 
many  times  of  late,  vet  he  could  not  resist  writing  down 
the  words  which  jingled  for  ever  in  his  brain.  In  those 
hours  when  his  two  companions  had  been  painting,  he  had 
covered   sheet   after  sheet  with  verses,  good,  bad,   and   in- 


FOSCA  41 

different,  but,  fearing  derision,  he  had  always  concealed 
the  fact  from  his  companions,  who  had  believed  he  was 
writing  letters. 

1  If  poetry  doesn't   pay,'  observed  Fosca  at  last,  '  why 
not  write   romance  ?  ' 

c  Ah  !  '  sighed   the  young  Englishman,  wistfully.     '  If  I 
only  could.' 

c  You  haven't  tried,'  she  said  encouragingly. 
'  Novelists  make  easy  fortunes,'  observed  the  O'Donovan. 
<  In  that  direction  true  fame  lies.  I've  heard  of  men  in 
England  getting  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  for  two 
months'  work.  I  believe  that  when  a  novelist  once  makes 
a  name,  he  literally  rakes  in  the  needful  like  a  croupier  at 
Monte  Carlo.' 

c  But  I  couldn't  construct  a  plot  or  write  a  story  to  save 
my  life,'  protested  Bertram.  c  When  I  reflect  upon  the 
wonderful  plots  of  Sue,  Dumas,  and  Du  Boisgobey,  the 
realism  of  Zola,  and  the  minute  pictures  of  life  penned  by 
Dickens,  I'm  bewildered.  How  can  anyone  hope  to  writ? 
with  success,  or  ever  gain  a  public  who  have  already  such 
marvellous  works  before  them  ?  No,  I  could  never  write 
novels  —  never.' 

1  Try,  Bertram,  try,'  Fosca  urged.  '  Endeavour  to  write 
a feuilleton  for  the  Petit  Journal  or  the  Figaro' 

But  Rosmead,  his  dark,  serious  eyes  fixed  tenderly  upon 
her,  shook  his  head  in  sorrow. 

1  No,'  he  answered,  c  I  have  no  talent  in  that  direction. 
It's  utterly  impossible.' 

'Nothing  should  be  pronounced  impossible  before  you've 
made  the  attempt,'  said  the  girl,  with  a  philosophical  air, 
exchanging  a  quick  glance  with  Jean.  '  You  must  try. 
And  I'll  make  you.' 

Whereat  thev  all  laughed  merrily  in  unison. 

An  hour  later,  after  Fosca,  seated  in  the  armchair,  had 


42  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

smoked  one  of  her  lover's  caporals  with  that  natural  abandon 
which  caused  her  to  be  so  popular  throughout  the  Ouartier, 
the  pair,  laughing  merrily,  went  out  together,  mounting  to 
the  top  of  the  green  omnibus  at  the  corner  of  the  Place  des 
Pvramidcs,  and  riding  to  the  Porte  dc  la  Muctte.  It  was 
their  usual  Sunday  excursion,  for  it  onlv  cost  twenty  cen- 
times, and  was  a  long  ride  through  the  airiest  and  best  part 
(  )n  Sunda)  afternoons  there  was  then,  as  now, 
always  a  scramble  for  scats  on  the  top  of  those  great,  long, 
three-horse  'buses,  for  on  a  warm  evening  it  was  delightful 
to  drive  along  those  leafy  avenues,  past  the  residences  of 
the  wealthy,  and  enter  the  great  broad  all'ees  of  the  Bois. 
W  hen  they  alighted,  the  dav  was  already  waning,  and  in 
the  sunset  they  wandered  on  along  the  quiet  bv-paths,  hand 
in  hand,  past  the  Auteuil  racecourse,  and  around  the  edge 
of  the  lake,  where  the  willows  drooped  until  their  foliage 
trailed  in  the  water,  and  the  children  were  feeding  the 
swans  with  biscuits  nnd  bread. 

Life  was,  indeed,  dull  and  monotonous,  for  ever  impor- 
tuning women  to  purchase  reticella,  Venetian  point,  or 
point  ttjtrgentan^  and  these  Sunday  outings  were  to  Fosca 
a  source  of  innocent  delight.  In  those  long  summer  hours 
when  she  stood  at  her  counter  whereon  her  wares  were 
displayed,  she  sighed  often  for  those  green  fields  and  purple 
mountains  she  remembered  when  a  child,  those  far-off 
Apennines  beneath  which  she  had  lived  several  years  with 
her  aunt  in  the  little  Tuscan  village.  But  in  that  Quartier 
beyond  the  Seine  where  she  had  spent  her  later  youth  with 
her  wild,  dissipated  father  and  invalid  mother,  there  was 
little  fresh  air,  for,  truth  to  tell,  the  secret  abode  of  the 
Marquis  was  in  a  narrow,  dirtv  street  which  bore,  perhaps, 
the  most  evil  reputation  of  any  in  the  Fifth  Arrondissement, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  Those  Sunday  evening  ram- 
bles were  particularly  enjoyable,  because  thev  took  her  out 


FOSCA  43 

of  herself  as  she  watched  the  carriages  with  the  grand  folk 
driving  home  to  dine,  and  felt  that  she,  too,  for  that  brief 
hour,  was  free,  happy,  and  careless  as  these  women  who 
lolled  among  their  cushions,  and  surveyed  the  world  through 
their  lorgnettes.  Like  most  other  girls  employed  in  shops, 
she  was  dissatisfied  ;  the  restraint  galled  her  ;  for  she  inherited 
a  restless  spirit  from  the  Marquis,  and  was  ever  longing  for 
the  day  when  she  could  leave  the  magasin,  and  escape  for 
ever  the  severe  eye  of  that  hook-nosed  head  saleswoman. 

As  they  strolled  on  arm  in  arm,  with  the  liquid  gold  of 
the  sunset  full  in  their  faces,  she  related  to  him,  as  lovers 
will,  all  the  little  incidents  of  the  past  few  days,  sighing 
when  she  spoke  of  the  terrible  monotony  and  weariness  of 
her  life,  while  he,  pressing  her  hand,  repeated  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  his  declaration  of  love  and  devotion.  They 
were  a  well-matched  pair,  these  two  ;  he,  broad-shouldered, 
happv-faced,  with  refined,  regular  features,  notwithstanding 
his  shabby  clothes,  and  she  so  beautiful  that  often  those 
women  in  carriages  whom  she  envied  turned  back  to  look 
at  her. 

Student  and  shop-girl  adored  each  other. 

To-dav  Bertram's  frank  acknowledgment  that  he  was 
tired  of  art  had  troubled  her.  In  other  words,  it  meant  to 
her  that  he  was  weary  of  life  in  that  dull,  dingy  sky-parlour, 
just  as  she  was  weary  of  the  eternal  turmoil  of  the  gigantic 
magasin,  where  the  army  of  assistants  was  a  mere  machine, 
and  where,  with  tired  feet  and  aching  head,  she  worked  on 
mechanically  with  but  one  thought  —  the  freedom  of  the 
approaching  Sunday. 

'  You  speak  despondingly,'  she  said  presently,  when  they 
had  been  discussing  Teddy's  latest  picture.  c  If  you  feel 
you  cannot  make  a  name  in  art,  try  something  else.  You 
must  really  write  a  romance.  It  would  be  such  fun  to  see 
your  name  in  print.' 


44  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

4  Impossible,'  he  declared.  4  It  would  be  years  before  I 
could  earn  sufficient  to  keep  me,  and  I  have  no  private 
income,  like  Teddv  or  Jean  will  some  day  have.  The 
people  of  both    are    rich,  and   if  they  turn   out   failures,   it 

doesn't    so  much    matter.      But    as   for    me '   and    he 

sighed,  without  concluding  his  sentence. 

4  Well,  suppose  you  fail,  what  then  ? '  she  asked,  glancing 
at  him  with  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes. 

1  If  I  fail,'  he  said,  in  a  low,  troubled  voice,  4  if  I  fail, 
Fosca,  I  starve.' 

1  Are  your  people  in  England  poor,  then  ? '  she  asked,  in 
a  quiet,  svmpathetic  voice. 

4  I  have  no  people,'  he  answered  huskily.  4  They  both 
died  long  ago,  and  I  exist  merely  on  charity  —  the  charity 
of  an  uncle  who  in  a  few  months  will  cut  off  my  allowance, 
and  I  shall  be  thrown  on  the  world  penniless.' 

She  sio-hed.  Her  lover's  future  was  not  a  brilliant  out- 
look.  Tears  rose  in  her  line  eves  as  she  tightened  the 
pressure  on  his  hand,  and  looked  up  into  his  dark,  pensive 
face.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  so  melancholy, 
the  first  time,  too,  that  he  had  spoken  of  his  relatives  or 
position.  Previouslv  he  had  been  as  gay,  happy,  and  reck- 
less as  any  of  his  fellow-students,  regarding  the  comedy  of 
life  with  an  airiness  with  which  only  the  true  bred  child 
of  Bohemia  can  treat  it,  laughing  in  the  face  of  the  demon 
Poverty,  and  setting  at  naught  all  the  convenances.  To-day, 
however,  he  seemed  nervous  and  uneasy  ;  he  was  flushed 
darkly  about  his  temples,  and  his  eyes  glittered  feverishly. 
He  felt  sick,  as  we  all  do  when  things  happen  athwart  our 
everyday  peacefulness.  One  does  not  recognise  the  peace, 
except  in  the  flash  of  its  destruction. 

4  Bertram,  what  is  it  ?  You  are  somehow  not  yourself,' 
she  cried  tremulously,  noticing  his  grief. 

4  Nothing,  only  that  I  love  you.' 


FOSCA 


45 


His  voice  was  a  little  thick  and  strained  ;  it  seemed  to 
break  into  a  feeble  shrillness,  as  if  he  were  excited  and 
shaken. 

c  Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  be  so  sad  ?  '  she 
asked,  with   wide-open,   reproachful  eyes. 

c  I  am  sad,  and  also  jealous,  because  others  have  talents 
that  I  have  not,'  he  answered  slowlv,  and  with  emphasis. 
c  The  men  who  have  money  and  rich  friends  have  genius ; 
those  who  are  poor  have  none.      I'm  one  of  the  latter.' 

1  Am  I  not  poor,  too  ? '  she  said.  '  We  love  each  other, 
therefore  we  mav  surely  face  the  world  together.  Strive, 
strive  on,  and  some  dav,  sooner  or  later,  we  shall  marry 
and   be   happv.      You  know  that   I   am   vours.' 

c  Ah,  yes,  darling,'  he  answered,  pausing,  and  drawing 
her  closer  to  him.  Thev  were  among  the  trees,  far  from 
the  frequented  paths,  therefore  he  placed  his  arm  about  her 
neck,  and  imprinted  a  long,  passionate  kiss  upon  her  full 
red  lips.  c  You  are  a  brave  little  woman,  indeed,  to  speak 
like  this.  You  know  full  well,  darling,  I  adore  vou  fondly 
and  trulv.      For  vour  sake  I'm  ready  to  do  anvthine.' 

And  as  she  looked  up  into  his  eves,  she  saw  bv  their 
clear,  honest  depths  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  But  she  did 
not  reply.  Her  heart  was  too  full  for  words,  and  thev 
walked   on   in   silence. 

Rosmead  loved  her  with  his  whole  soul.  Her  face 
alone  was  ever  before  him  in  that  high-up,  dingv  old  studio, 
the  remembrance  of  her  sweet,  musical  voice  ever  rang  in 
his  ears  above  the  reckless  laughter  at  Mother  Gery's,  and 
the  recollection  of  her  toiling  so  long  and  wearily  in  the 
great  magasin  bevond  the  Seine  had  kept  him  from  indulg- 
ing in  many  of  those  excesses  inseparable  from  life  in  the 
Quartier. 

As  the  sunset  glow,  now  deepened  to  crimson,  fell  upon 
her,  tinging  her  beautiful  face  and  raven  hair,  he  thought 


46  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

she  had  never  before  looked  so  handsome.  She  was  a 
trifle  pale,  perhaps  unusually  dark  beneath  the  eyes,  but 
that  wan  look  was  because  her  vivaciousness,  her  very  life, 
was  slowly  being  sapped  by  the  monotonous  drudgery  of 
her  daily  labours,  extending  through  thirteen  hours,  and 
interrupted  onlv  by  two  scrambles  for  meals. 

He  wanted  to  take  her  from  that  terrible  soul-killing 
monotonv,  which  he  knew  was  slowly  undermining  her 
health  ;  but  he  could  not.  He  was  poor,  almost  penniless, 
and  had  yet  to  make  his  mark  ere  he  would  be  able  to 
marry  her.  Before  he  had  known  her,  he  had  been 
without  ambition,  without  a  thought  of  the  morrow,  a 
Bohemian  to  the  very  core.  But  the  knowledge  that  by 
dint  of  hard  work  he  might  gain  her,  had  fired  him  with 
ambition,  and  for  months  he  had  fondly  and  secretly 
cherished  the  idea  of  abandoning  art  for  literature.  Surrep- 
titiously he  had  written  those  poems  to  try  his  hand.  To- 
day, for  the  first  time,  he  had  invited  criticism,  yet  he  had 
been  crushed  by  the  bitter  truth  forced  upon  him  that  there 
was  little  fame  and  no  money  in  the  production  of  verse. 
To  become  a  minor  poet  without  means  was,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  admit,  sheer  imbecility  ;  in  literature  there  were 
but  two   courses  open  —  fiction   or  journalism. 

Not  until  the  brilliant  afterglow  had  faded  and  the 
shadows  deepened,  they  passed  out  of  the  Bois  along  the 
avenue  which  leads  to  Passy,  and  having  taken  a  maxagran 
at  that  little  restaurant  close  to  the  station  which  the 
students  so  often  patronised,  they  walked  on  as  far  as  the 
Place  du  Trocadero,  whence  they  took  an  omnibus  back  to 
the  Hotel  de  Ville.  As  they  passed  the  front  of  Notre 
Dame,  the  men  were  already  lighting  the  gas  lamps  in  the 
Place,  and  the  sight  of  the  dark,  gloomy,  shabby  Rue  du 
Cloitre  brought  back  to  her  remembrance  the  mysterious 
death  of  Violette. 


FOSCA  47 

1  I  wonder,'  she  exclaimed,  after  a  pause,  c  I  wonder  if 
the  police  will  ever  discover  who  killed  her  ?  ' 

'  Who  ? '  he  inquired  quickly. 

'The  woman  your  friend  O'Donovan  loved  so  well,' 
she  answered,  with  a  strange  hardness  in  her  voice,  and  an 
emphasis  upon  the  word  '  woman.' 

'Perhaps  they  may  some  day,'  he  answered  mechanically, 
his  thoughts  afar  off.  l  We  have  an  old  saying  in  English, 
that  "murder  will  out."  ' 

She  held  her  breath  for  a  single  instant,  and  the  even- 
ing gloom  concealed  the  sudden  pallor  which  overspread 
her  features. 

1  But  they  haven't  yet  discovered  who  she  really  was,' 
she  gasped.      c  They  never  will  —  I'm  sure  they  can't.' 

c  Why  ?  '  he  inquired,  rather  surprised  at  her  assertion 
and  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  it  was  uttered. 

c  Well,'  and  she  laughed  a  strange,  harsh,  almost  hyster- 
ical laugh.     c  Because  it  is  impossible.' 

Together  they  crossed  the  tiny  Pont  aux  Doubles,  and 
he,  bewitched  by  the  tenderness  of  her  smiles,  and  confi- 
dent of  her  affection,  allowed  the  subject  to  drop,  thinking 
no  more  of  her  words. 

Yet,  within  a  week  from  that  memorable  night,  the 
pleasant,  careless  life  of  the  Bohemian  trio,  who  had  spent 
three  well-remembered  years  together,  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted, for  early  one  morning  Jean,  the  silent,  thoughtful 
Jean,  received  a  telegram  from  Morlaix,  recalling  him 
home  to  Brittany  immediately,  on  account  of  a  sudden  ill- 
ness of  his  father.  It  was  a  blow  to  his  two  companions, 
but,  assuring  them  that  he  would  soon  be  back,  he  left  the 
Gare  St.  Lazare  with  their  heartiest  good  wishes. 

Rosmead  and  O'Donovan,  having  seen  him  off,  returned 
to  their  rooms  a  little  melancholy,  but  nevertheless  confi- 
dent  that    in   a   week   or   so   their   friend  would   return  to 


48  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

resume  the  old,  easy,  careless  life.  Knowledge  of  the 
hideous  truth,  however,  was  not  long  delayed,  for  the 
evening   post  brought  an   explanatory  letter  from   Fosca. 

The  short,  brief  note,  evidently  hurriedly  penned,  was 
addressed  to  Bertram.  She  declared  that  she  had  grown 
tired  of  life  at  the  Louvre,  and  finding  him  so  poor  as  to 
be  unable  to  take  her  from  it,  she  had  accepted  an  offer 
made  her  by  Jean,  and  had  left  Paris  with  him. 

Rosmead,  in  his  amazement,  read  aloud  this  cruel, 
heartless  letter  to  the  bitter  end,  then,  with  it  still  in  his 
trembling  hand,  he  sank,  crushed  and  grief-stricken,  into 
the  old  armchair,  and  covering  his  face,  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears. 

O'Donovan,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  svmpathv,  placed  his 
hand  tenderly  upon  his  friend's  shoulder.  He  tried  to 
speak,  to  utter  some  words  of  regret  and  encouragement, 
but  his  voice  quivered  so  that  he  could  sav  no  word. 

The  dead  silence  of  that  old  room  was  unbroken,  save 
for  the  dull  roar  of  the  wild,  turbulent  City  of  Pleasure, 
which  came  up  across  the  Seine,  and  mingled  with  the 
convulsive  sobs  of  the  man,  the  light  of  whose  life  had  so 
suddenly  been  extinguished. 


CHAPTER   V 

IN    A    LONDON    SUBURB 

It  was  summer  in  one  of  the  dullest,  dreariest,  and  most 
dismal  of  London  suburbs.  A  year  had  passed  since  that 
well-remembered  night  when  Bertram  Rosmead  had  re- 
ceived the  letter  which  had  crushed  his  soul,  and  since  then 
his  life  had  been  a  strange  series  of  ups  and  downs.  He  had 
left  Paris  the  day  after,  and  with  scarce  a  franc  in  his  pocket, 
had  tramped  the  long  dusty  highroads  into  Germany,  exist- 
ing as  best  he  could  by  performing  yarious  kinds  of  menial 
labour,  but  often  trudging  far  on  an  empty  stomach,  his 
heart  heavy  with  its  burden  of  sorrow. 

After  Fosca's  perfidy,  his  one  thought  was  to  leave 
Paris,  to  place  as  great  a  distance  as  possible  between  him- 
self and  the  scenes  he  so  well  remembered,  to  rid  himself 
of  all  that  would  remind  him  of  her,  and  of  his  futile  student 
life.  Three  whole  years,  the  best  years  of  his  life,  had  been 
utterly  wasted  ;  therefore,  was  there  any  wonder  that  his 
uncle,  who  had  begrudged  every  penny  spent  upon  him,  was 
now  furious  ?  His  allowance  had  been  cut  off,  and  for  a 
time  matters  assumed  the  gravest  of  aspects.  But  this  life 
of  wandering  suited  him,  Bohemian  that  he  was.  If  only 
he  could  rid  himself  of  all  remembrance  of  the  past  —  of 
Jean's  perfidy,  and  Fosca's  fickleness  —  he  would  have 
been  quite  content.  But  her  false  declarations  of  love  and 
affection  were  ever  within  his  brain,  and  he  remembered, 
with  bitter  vividness,  those  love-looks  that  she  had  exchanged 

4 


50  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

with  the  young  Breton  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  when  he 
had  read  his  first  poor  attempt  at  verse.  He  ground  his 
teeth  and  increased  his  pace  whenever  he  thought  of  it. 
Thus,  shabby,  dusty,  weary  and  travelworn,  he  slowly  made 
his  way  across  the  frontier  into  the  German  Rhineland. 

In  those  well-remembered  autumn  days,  when  he  wan- 
dered up  the  white  highway  that  wound  through  the  smiling 
Moselle  valley  past  Alf,  the  pretty  village  embowered  in  its 
vineyards,  Berncastel,  with  its  historic  schloss,  and  quaint 
mediaeval  Cochem,  his  heart  overflowed  with  poignant  sor- 
row. Hitherto  he  had  been  merry,  easy-going,  and  reck- 
less ;  but  now  all  had  changed.  In  his  long,  lonely  journeys 
he  nursed  his  sorrow  in  silence,  tramping  forward,  ever 
forward,  towards  the  Rhine.  The  old  post  diligence,  lum- 
bering along  the  valley  from  Treves  to  Coblenz,  overtook 
him  daily,  smothering  him  with  dust,  and  the  one  little 
steamer  upon  the  river  snorted  past  him,  leaving  him  be- 
hind ;  but  he  heeded  not  the  things  about  him  so  long 
as  he  had  a  drink  of  milk  and  a  crust. 

Those  were  strange,  eventful  days,  with  morning  mists 
and  mid-day  sunshine,  with  glorious  evenings,  and  dark, 
chilly  nights,  when,  sleeping  in  out -houses,  the  cold  had 
penetrated  to  his  bones.  From  the  Quai  Montebello  to 
the  far-off  Dom  Platz,  in  Cologne,  he  tramped  every  foot 
of  the  way  ;  then,  his  uncle,  relenting,  sent  him  money,  and 
he  returned  to  England.  For  several  weeks  he  remained 
at  Frilsham  Towers,  his  uncle's  country  house,  near  Deal ; 
but  finding  that  his  presence  was  regarded  with  annoyance 
by  his  two  cousins,  superior  young  men,  who  looked  upon 
the  ne'er-do-well  student  as  an  interloper,  he  resolved  to 
make  a  bold  attempt  to  join  the  profession  which  was  now 
his  highest  ambition,  that  of  literature. 

Of  all  the  professions,  that  of  letters  is  most  difficult  to 
enter.     The  young    man   who    makes  the  rash  resolve   to 


IN  A   LONDON    SUBURB  51 

become  an  author  has  about  as  much  chance  of  attaining 

o 

popularity  as  a  lawyer's  clerk  has  of  obtaining  a  seat  on 
the  woolsack.  A  course  of  diligent  study  and  careful 
training  will  fit  the  average  young  man  for  any  of  the 
other  professions ;  but  to  literature  there  is  no  royal  road, 
no  school  beyond  that  great  school,  the  world,  no  exam- 
ination to  cram  for,  no  diploma  to  obtain.  The  man  who 
writes  and  obtains  popularity  is  the  man  who,  by  his  own 
personal  experience,  his  own  ups  and  downs  in  life,  his 
sorrows,  his  joys,  his  own  affairs  of  the  heart,  has  acquired 
a  wide  and  varied  knowledge  of  the  world  beyond  his  own 
circle,  and  who  can  thus  present  vivid  pictures  of  those 
phases  of  life  which,  although  strange  to  his  readers,  are 
familiar  to  himself.  The  world  itself  is  the  only  school  of 
the  writer  of  romance.  By  no  books  can  he  acquire  that 
insight  into  life  necessary  before  attempting  to  describe 
it ;  no  professors  can  teach  him  how  to  write,  or  even 
indicate  to  him  the  lines  on  which  he  must  travel  to  gain 
success. 

A  man  first  takes  to  writing  fiction  because  he  pos- 
sesses the  instinct  of  telling  a  story  clearly  and  well ;  but 
he  does  not  become  a  novelist  until,  after  many  years  of 
diligent  studv,  of  heart-breaking  disappointments  and  dis- 
heartening failure,  he  at  length  discovers  for  himself  the 
technique  of  plot-construction,  the  careful  adjustment  of  his 
scenes,  the  judicious  use  of  his  humour  and  pathos,  and 
the  subtle  touches  which  will  make  or  mar  his  denouement. 
None  of  this  can  be  taught.  If  the  writer  does  not  him- 
self make  the  discovery,  he  fails,  like  thousands  of  others 
have  failed  before  him ;  but  if  he  acquires  the  art  of  writ- 
ing fiction,  he  works  on  with  his  own  peculiar  technique, 
in  his  own  peculiar  manner,  and  perhaps  with  success, 
fame,  and  fortune.  The  circle  of  successful  romance- 
writers  is  a  very  small  one ;  but  there  is   not  a  single  man 


52  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

among  them  who  has  not  previously  followed  some  other 
avocation,  not  one  who  has  not  been  the  sport  of  fortune, 
not  one  who  has  not  experienced  failure  after  failure,  and 
whose  fond  hopes  of  success  have  not  been  wrecked  time 
after  time,  till  all  work  seemed  in  vain,  all  thought  of 
popularity  but  an  empty  dream.  But  with  dogged  per- 
sistency, with  that  airy  light-heartedness  with  which  the 
true  Bohemian  faces  evil  fortune,  he  has  plodded  on,  still 
hoping,  still  achieving,  still  studying  the  everyday  life 
about  him,  determined  to  obtain  a  hearing  from  the  public. 
In  not  one  instance  alone  does  this  happen,  but  in  all.  The 
successful  author,  an  edition  of  whose  new  work  is  ex- 
hausted on  the  day  of  publication,  whose  portrait  appears 
in  the  illustrated  papers,  with  the  appended  interview, 
whose  uneven  scribble  is  sought  by  autograph  collectors 
in  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  whose  last  romance  is  criti- 
cised by  every  journal  of  note  throughout  England  and 
America,  seldom  tells  the  public  the  bitter  story  of  his 
earlier  desperate  struggles.  The  interviewer  is  alwavs 
content  with  the  present  —  the  author's  house,  his  study,  his 
bric-a-brac,  his  great  writing-table,  with  its  litter  of  manu- 
script, books,  and  press-cuttings  •,  his  mode  of  work,  and 
his  recreation.  Of  the  past  the  novelist  says  nothing. 
He  has  merely  c  been  through  the  mill,'  as  others  have 
done.  With  that  careless  good  humour  which  every  suc- 
cessful writer  possesses  in  more  or  less  degree,  he  shrugs 
his  shoulders  and  closes  his  mouth,  a  little  hard,  perhaps, 
when  he  reflects.  But  it  is  finished.  Does  not  his  agent 
possess,  secure  in  that  great  iron  safe  in  his  fine  suite  of 
offices  off  the  Strand,  contracts  with  eager  publishers 
which  will  keep  him  in  work  and  in  luxury  for  years  to 
come  ;  has  he  not  mortgaged  himself  to  the  greedy  readers 
of  newspapers  to  produce  serial  after  serial,  which  will  be 
syndicated  and   published   simultaneously   in   every  part   of 


IN   A   LONDON    SUBURB  53 

the  world  ?  Yes.  He  has  striven  and  conquered.  He 
laughs  at  the  past  as  too  trivial  to  relate  to  the  interviewer. 
He  is  now  popular. 

Many  young  men  believe  that  journalism  forms  an  easy 
channel  by  which  to  drift  into  the  higher  branches  of 
literature.  Bertram  Rosmead  held  this  opinion,  and,  know- 
ing nothing  of  the  ways  of  journalistic  life,  and  never 
having  been  inside  a  newspaper  office,  he,  as  is  usual  with 
the  tyro,  wrote  to  the  editors  of  several  of  the  London 
morning  papers  offering  his  services.  The  futile  result  of 
such  applications  may  readily  be  imagined. 

At  length,  however,  by  a  luckv  chance,  he  answered  an 
advertisement  which  appeared  in  that  journalistic  medium, 
the  Daily  News^  headed  c  Reporter  Wanted,'  and  a  week 
later  found  himself  in  a  very  curious  and  embarrassing 
position.  He  had  not  been  unwise  enough  to  admit  him- 
self utterly  unacquainted  with  journalism,  and  therefore  the 
position  which  had  been  given  him  was  the  sole  charge  or 
a  small,  obscure,  but  old-established  journal  called  the 
Hounslow  Standard.  The  staff  of  this  influential  weekly 
organ,  whose  destinies  he  was  to  control,  was  not  a  large 
one.  It  consisted  of  himself  alone.  He  was  editor,  sub- 
editor, reporter,  and  reader,  and  was  expected  to  keep  up 
a  good  personal  appearance  upon  the  sum  of  thirty  shillings 
weekly.  The  office  of  that  journal  was,  like  himself,  a 
little  bizarre.  It  consisted  of  a  small,  mouldy-smelling 
shop  in  a  bad  state  of  repair,  half-wav  up  the  long,  dreary, 
straggling  High  Street  of  the  dull,  uninteresting  suburban 
town,  and  behind  in  the  garden  was  a  shed  in  which  half- 
a-dozen  youths  set  type,  while  further  on  was  a  small  out- 
house, originally  built  for  a  stable,  but  now  euphemistically 
termed  the  c  machine-room,'  containing,  as  it  did,  an  old- 
fashioned  press  worked  by  a  grunting  gas-engine,  which 
very  often   failed   and   had  to   be   turned    by  hand.     This 


54  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

interesting  piece  of  machinery  was  broken  in  places,  and 
had  been  repaired  with  string. 

Rosmead,  during  his  three  years  on  the  Quai  Monte- 
bello,  had  heard  much  grand  talk  of  the  influence  of  the 
Press,  but  after  an  inspection  of  the  dingv  office  of  that 
suburban  organ,  he  admitted  within  himself  that  he  was 
not   impressed. 

At  first  he  dreaded  lest  he  should  display  ignorance  of 
his  duties,  but  finding  that  the  proprietor  of  the  journal  was 
an  easy-going,  pleasant  man,  who  seldom,  if  ever,  put  his 
foot  inside  the  office  door,  and  left  him  to  manage  every- 
thing, he  boldly  commenced  work. 

He  took  up  his  quarters  with  a  thin-faced  widow,  of  the 
genus  who  had  c  seen  better  days,'  in  one  of  a  terrace  of 
rather  ramshackle  houses  which  smelt  of  soap-suds,  occupy- 
ing the  front  sitting-room,  a  gloomy  apartment,  upholstered 
in  faded  red  rep,  as  his  living-room  and  study.  Through 
the  week  he  worked  with  that  ardour  begotten  of  enthu- 
siasm, attending  the  police-court  daily  at  the  old  market- 
town  of  Brentford  —  that  uncleanly  town,  famous  in  story 
for  its  two  kings  —  travelling  as  far  afield  as  Staines  or 
Hampton-on-Thames,  to  collect  items  of  local  interest, 
and  at  night  attending  concerts,  lectures,  tea-meetings,  or 
pennv-readings,  in  those  galvanised-iron  structures  irrever- 
ently known  as  '  tin  tabernacles/  He  wrote  that  week 
two  leaders  and  a  column  of  those  brief  commenting  para- 
graphs termed  l  Local  Notes,'  and  at  last,  late  on  Friday 
night,  he  stood  beside  the  rumbling,  antiquated  press,  and 
took  therefrom  a  limp,  damp  copy  of  the  first  newspaper 
he  had  produced. 

With  it  in  his  pocket,  he  strode  airily  home  to  his 
lodgings,  and  for  an  hour  sat  with  it  spread  before  him, 
contemplating  it  with  the  most  profound  satisfaction.  The 
leaders  had  an   imposing  look.      They  were   modelled   upon 


IN   A   LONDON   SUBURB  55 

some  he  had  that  week  read  in  the  Morning  Post,  and  were 
high-flown,  one  commencing  with  the  straightforward  as- 
sertion, 'We  do  not  agree  with  Lord  Salisbury/  The 
proprietor  had  given  him  instructions  to  write  upon  a 
pending  election  in  the  county  from  a  purely  impartial 
standpoint.  Unfortunately,  however,  Rosmead,  although 
he  could  talk  t>v  the  hour  of  the  shortcomings  of  the 
Floquet  Ministry,  the  machinations  of  Gambetta,  and  the 
Rovalist  movement,  knew  nothing  whatever  of  English 
politics.  He  was  actually  unaware  whether  the  Govern- 
ment in  power  was  Radical  or  Conservative,  until  he 
looked  it  up  in  that  journalistic  vade-mecum,  l  Whitaker.' 
The  idea  of  writing  from  an  impartial  standpoint  had 
sorely  puzzled  him,  therefore  he  had  taken  the  two  can- 
didates for  the  seat,  criticised  their  election  addresses  with 
equal  asperity,  and  concluded  by  advising  the  electors  to 
vote  for  both  ! 

The  amount  of  ridicule  heaped  upon  the  Hoiinslotu  Stand- 
ard that  week  by  its  Radical  contemporaries  may  easily  be 
conjectured.  The  proprietor  was  furious,  and  poor  Ros- 
mead, extremely  penitent,  for  the  next  three  weeks  existed 
in  deadly  fear  of  being  discharged  at  the  end  of  his  month 
of  approbation. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth  week,  when  he  received 
from  the  proprietor's  wife  his  usual  thirty  shillings  in  silver, 
screwed  up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper,  nothing  was  said  about 
his  dismissal;  he  therefore  continued  the  duties  of  editor- 
ship, gradually  obtaining  knowledge  of  the  technicalities  of 
reporting,  proof-reading,  and  printing,  not  without  making 
a  good   many   friends. 

From  the  first  his  keen-eyed  colleagues  on  the  opposi- 
tion journals  in  the  district,  whom  he  met  daily  at  the  vari- 
ous meetings  he  attended,  saw  that  he  could  not  write 
shorthand,  and  was  evidently  a  beginner,  on  account  of  the 


56  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

huge  note-book  and  half-a-dozen  carefully-sharpened  pencils 
which  he  carried.  There  is,  however,  always  a  commend- 
able esprit  de  corps  among  pressmen,  and  many  a  time  one 
or  other  of  the  reporters  of  the  journals  which  were  his 
bitterest  political  opponents  would  send  him  a  proof  of  the 
verbatim  speech  of  some  local  notable  on  a  subject  of 
unusual  interest,  or  exchange  with  him  a  carbon  copy  of 
the  report   of  some  meeting  which   he  could  not   attend. 

Very  soon,  among  the  little  coterie  of  a  dozen  reporters 
who  daily  scoured  West  Middlesex  l  picking  up  para- 
graphs,' Bertram  Rosmead  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  good 
fellow,  and  there  was  not  one  who  would  not  lend  him  a 
helping  hand.  But  at  night,  when  he  returned  home  from 
the  soul-killing  dreariness  of  those  Dissenting  tea-meetings, 
juvenile  dissolving-view  entertainments,  or  amateur  con- 
certs, which  were  nightly  held  in  one  or  other  of  the  small 
towns  or  villages  which  constituted  his  district,  he  sat 
beneath  his  lamp,  trying  to  write  his  leading  article  for  the 
coming  issue.  With  an  amateur's  lack  of  discretion,  he 
chose  hackneyed  subjects,  and  struggled  desperately  to  be 
original.  They  were  lame,  sorry  attempts,  these  first  steps 
in  literature,  even  though  he  was  profuse  in  his  use  of 
adjectives,  and  had  his  second-hand  copy  of  the  i  Thesaurus  ' 
ever  at  his  elbow.  They  were  a  species  of  essay  savoured 
with  one  or  two  incongruous  expressions  quoted,  but  not 
acknowledged,  from  the  Morning  Post,  with  a  varied  and 
wonderful  punctuation,  more  remarkable  for  commas  than 
for  semicolons.  He  acknowledged  long  afterwards  that  for 
a  year  or  two  he  did  not  know  where  to  place  a  semi- 
colon. 

Still,  he  strove  desperately  for  hours  and  hours,  often 
until  the  paraffin  gave  out,  and  the  grey  morning  showed 
through  the  chinks  of  the  closed  shutters.  Then  he  would 
go   out   into   the    little   front   garden,  and   smell   the   roses, 


IN   A   LONDON   SUBURB  57 

fresh  and  delicious  with  the  dew  upon  them,  and  allow  the 
cool  air  of  sunrise  to  fan  his  heated  temples.  He  worked 
for  that  little,  obscure  journal  night  and  day,  for  journalism 
was  the  profession  he  had  chosen,  and  with  dogged  deter- 
mination he  was  intent  upon  success. 

Even  there,  in  that  little  town,  the  most  dismal  perhaps 
of  any  within  the  twelve-mile  radius,  where  whole  rows  of 
new  houses  were  gaunt,  windowless,  and  decaying,  because 
no  one  had  ever  been  found  to  live  in  them,  the  offer  of  a 
free  season-ticket  to  the  City  being  insufficient  to  induce 
persons  to  take  up  residence  there,  he  found  life  full  of 
variety.  Hounslow  is  a  mean  and  meagre  town,  notable 
for  three  things,  —  its  barracks,  its  great  gunpowder  factory, 
and  the  number  and  variety  of  its  lower-class  public-houses  ; 
but  to  Bertram  Rosmead,  who  had  often  to  attend  a  local 
wedding  or  an  inquest  in  the  same  morning,  or  in  the  same 
evening  report  a  sermon  at  the  parish  church  and  criticise 
a  nigger  entertainment  at  the  Town  Hall,  life  in  those  early, 
enthusiastic  days  was  never  dull. 

Local  feeling  was  always  at  fever-heat  in  Hounslow,  and 
the  representatives  of  the  Press  were  always  courteously 
entertained.  At  certain  sittings  of  the  Board  of  Guardians 
over  at  Isleworth,  that  quaint,  old-world  riverside  village, 
untouched  as  yet  by  the  hand  of  the  vandal,  there  was 
provided  a  fine  cold  collation,  washed  down  with  a  good 
brand  of  champagne,  with  cigars  and  Benedictine  to 
follow ;  while  again,  at  the  meeting  of  the  Hounslow 
Burial  Board,  held  at  night  in  a  tiny  room  on  the  first  floor 
of  an  uncleanly  pot-house,  both  the  members  of  that  body 
and  '  the  Press  '  smoked  long  clays  and  partook  of  a  hearty 
supper  of  boiled  leg  of  mutton  and  onions.  This  last- 
mentioned  enlightened  body  were  conspicuous  for  the 
inordinate  length  and  asperity  of  their  discussions,  and 
were  always  a  source  of  amusement   to  the  editor-reporter 


58  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

of  the  local  Standard.  It  consisted  of  eight  small  trades- 
men, who  controlled  the  bare,  miserable  cemetery,  and  met 
once  a  month  to  look  after  the  mortal  remains  of  their 
departed  fellow-townsmen.  On  such  occasions  they  as- 
sembled around  a  beer-stained  table  in  the  upstairs  room, 
the  chair  being  taken  by  a  retired  carpenter,  whose  c  h's ' 
were  faulty,  one  of  the  representatives  of  the  Press  being 
chosen  as  clerk,  the  minutes  being  kept  in  a  penny  account- 
book.  Then  gin  and  hot  water  would  be  brought  in  by 
the  beaming,  red-faced  host,  and  after  the  sugar  had  been 
judiciously  added,  and  the  long  clays  filled  with  shag  and 
lighted,  the  business  of  the  evening  invariably  commenced 
by  the  sexton,  who  had  stood  trembling  on  the  mat  outside, 
being  called  in  and  roundly  abused  for  his  inattention  to 
duty.  When  this  remarkable  body  did  not  quarrel  with 
their  one  single  employe,  who  dug  graves  and  grew  mush- 
rooms, they  quarrelled  among  themselves  about  the  dis- 
position of  the  corpses,  or  the  form  and  manner  of  the 
tombstones,  the  discussion  growing  so  heated  that,  on  one 
occasion,  the  chairman,  with  an  oath,  collared  one  of  his 
fellow-members,  who  had  dared  to  dispute  his  ruling,  and 
pitched  him  headlong  downstairs  into  the  bar  below. 

At  command  of  the  irate  chairman,  the  sexton,  who 
acted  as  '  the  Board's '  factotum  and  beadle,  followed  the 
expelled  member  into  the  street,  and  offered  to  fight  him 
on  the  spot.  The  unfortunate  tailor,  who  had  been  badly 
shaken  by  his  sudden  descent,  declined  this  invitation,  and 
limped  off,  consigning  the  whole  of  the  enlightened  body 
to  the  regions  of  eternal  warmth,  and  threatening  that  on 
the  morrow  he  would  l  go  and  wreck  the  whole  bally 
cemetery.' 

Local  politics  in  Hounslow  at  that  period  were  fiercely 
contested.  Indeed,  a  few  days  later,  one  of  the  members 
of  the  Local  Board  —  the  body  that   controlled   the  drains, 


IN   A   LONDON   SUBURB  59 

now  happily  superseded  by  the  District  Council  —  a  retired 
collector  of  rabbit-skins,  who  posed  as  the  people's  cham- 
pion, differed  so  seriously  with  the  chairman,  a  birthday 
knight,  upon  the  appointment  of  a  new  inspector  of  nuis- 
ances —  whom,  bv  the  way,  he  irreverently  termed  a  l  stink 
inspector'  —  that  in  order  to  prevent  him  doing  mischief 
he  had  to  be  removed  by  the  police,  his  books,  papers,  and 
rusty  tall  hat  being  flung  out  after  him  into  the  road. 

Meanwhile,  the  ill-printed  Hounslow  Standard  became 
locally  popular  by  reason  of  the  brilliance  of  its  descrip- 
tions of  these  exciting  events,  and  thus  gradually,  by  dint 
of  slaving  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  only  retiring  to 
rest  when  his  aching  brain  refused  longer  to  bear  the  strain, 
and  his  head  fell  in  sleep  upon  his  blotting-pad,  Bertram 
Rosmead,  lonely,  pensive,  and  self-absorbed,  began  to 
acquire  a  knowledge  of  the  first  elements  of  journalism. 


CHAPTER   VI 


ONE    FACE 


To  the  journalist,  in  his  youthful  enthusiasm,  armed  with 
ponderous  note-book,  generally  ready  to  take  an  absolutely 
verbatim  note  of  the  merest  trivial  discussion,  and  fully 
believing  that  any  '  original  matter'  he  writes  will  influ- 
ence the  world's  opinion,  life  is  full  of  variety  and  pleasure. 
If  his  colleagues  are  good  fellows,  as  Rosmead's  were  at 
Hounslow,  there  is  considerable  amusement,  and  work 
is  often  reduced  to  a  minimum  bv  one  reporter  attending 
a  small  meeting  and  furnishing  duplicate  reports  to  all  his 
confreres.  The  one  idea  of  the  local  reporter  is  to  make 
the  greatest  amount  of  '  copy  '  with  the  least  possible 
amount  of  exertion  ;  and  after  Bertram  had  occupied  the 
editorial  chair  of  his  journal  for  a  year,  he  found  that  these 
carbon  duplicates,  on  oiled  tissue  paper,  known  in  jour- 
nalism as  c  flimsies,'  circulated  so  freely,  that  he  had  plenty 
of  time  on  his  hands.  Reporting  without  labour  had  been 
brought  to  a  fine  art  in  that  district.  Usually,  the  whole 
of  his  afternoons  were  free  ;  therefore,  with  a  resolve  to 
endeavour  to  contribute  to  other  periodicals,  he  one  day 
sat  down  and  wrote  some  verses  which  had  been  running 
in  his  head  all  day.  Thev  were  in  French,  for  he  found 
he  could  write  French  with  better  rhythm,  and  he  headed 
them   '  Mirette  '  :  — 


ONE    FACE  6 1 

Mirette  a  des  yeux  couleur  de  printemps 
Qui  font  s'entr'ouvrir  les  boutons  de  rose, 
Et  Ton  dit  qiTil  nait  des  lis  eclatants 
A  la  place  emue  ou  son  pied  se  pose. 

Le  front  de  Mirette  est  si  gracieux, 
Que  lorsqu'ils  y  voient  un  sourire  eclore 
Les  oiseaux  distraits  chantent  dans  les  cieux 
Comme  s'ils  voyaient  resplendir  Taurore. 

In  this  strain  he  wrote  eight  verses,  all  decidedly  above 
the  average,  as  those  quoted  plainly  show,  the  final  one 
being :  — 

Puis,  quand  elle  part,  sous  les  bois  joyeux 
Qui  couvrent  de  fleurs  sa  nuque  doree, 
Le  prince  va  boire,  en  fermant  les  yeux, 
L'eau  pure  oil  brilla  V image  adoree. 

When  he  had  finished  them,  with  many  final  touches, 
he  took  some  ruled  paper,  made  a  good  copy,  and  enclosed 
them  in  an  envelope  to  the  editor  of  Temple  Bar.  Three 
days  later,  he  received  from  the  office  of  that  magazine  an 
intimation  that  his  contribution  was  accepted,  and  would 
appear  in  an  early  number,  while  the  editor  added  that  he 
was  ready  to  consider  anv  other  similar  verses  in  French. 
At  this,  Rosmead's  joy  knew  no  bounds. 

He  had  taken  his  first  step  on  the  thorny  path  of  litera- 
ture, and  was  now  determined  to  press  forward  to  his  goal. 
Neglecting  his  journalistic  work  somewhat  —  for  from  the 
first  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  mere  stepping-stone  to  literary 
life  —  he  sat  dav  after  dav,  night  after  night,  writing  poem 
after  poem,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  None  that  he  wrote 
were  of  sufficient  merit  to  send  in  response  to  the  editor's 
invitation.  Therefore,  in  sheer  desperation,  he  had  to  fall 
back  upon  the  madrigal,  l  Belle,  vous  croyez  que  fignorej  he 
had  read  to  his  fellow-students  and  to  Fosca  on  that  well- 
remembered  Sunday  afternoon  long  ago. 


62  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

This  was  accepted,  as  were  others  in  the  months  that 
succeeded,  and  although  published  anonymously,  the  cul- 
tured readers  of  Temple  Bar  did  not  fail  to  recognise  in 
them   a  high  standard  of  attainment. 

But  Bertram  Rosmead  was  ambitious.  The  paragraphs 
he  read  in  every  paper  about  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
prominent  novelists — who,  in  these  days,  obtain  almost  as 
much  advertisement  as  a  prince  of  the  royal  blood  —  had 
aroused  within  him  a  determination  to  take  the  advice  of 
his  old  and  lost  friend  Teddy,  and  try  romance. 

So,  through  those  dreary  winter  months,  when  the  even- 
ings were  long,  he  managed  to  snatch  time  from  his 
journalistic  duties,  and  toiling  ever  at  his  table,  strove  to 
write  short  stories.  As  is  usual  with  the  tyro,  he  sent 
them  in  various  directions,  alwavs  to  the  editors  of  the 
higher-class  magazines,  the  illustrations  of  which  com- 
mended  themselves  to  him  ;  but,  without  exception,  they 
all  came  back,  with  a  printed  form  enclosed,  expressing 
the  editor's  regret.  The  various  forms  of  refusal  are  too 
well  known  to  every  author,  and  there  is  not  one  success- 
ful writer  to-day  who  does  not  vividly  recollect  those 
disappointing  leaflets  of  the  past,  or  perhaps  has  some  of 
them  still  preserved  in  the  locked  drawer  of  his  writing- 
table.  But  Rosmead's  attempts  at  fiction  were  very  crude, 
and,  although  never  devoid  of  literary  merit,  they  lacked 
that  dramatic  treatment  and  delicate  touch  necessary  to 
render  the  feuilleton  attractive.  His  plots  were  generally 
good,  but  his  utter  ignorance  of  technique  rendered  his  pro- 
ductions quite  useless  from  an  editorial  point  of  view. 

Months  passed  in  that  manner.  Every  week  he  sent 
out  one  or  more  short  stories ;  but  the  postman  brought 
them  back  with  a  regularity  that  was  disheartening.  Of 
his  meagre  thirty  shillings  a  week,  he  had  not  much  to 
spare  for  postages  after  he  had  paid  the  ascetic  widow  for 


ONE   FACE  6$ 

his  board  and  lodging  ;  therefore,  many  times  he  sat  in  his 
quiet,  lonely  room,  crushed  and  despairing,  the  bitter  truth 
forced  upon  him  that  he  had  no  talent,  and  that  the  money 
spent  in  sending  his  wretched  attempts  about  was  money 
thrown  away. 

He  admitted  to  none  of  his  colleagues  that  he  was  liv- 
ing to  become  a  novelist,  fearing  their  derision  ;  but  one 
dav,  when  one  of  them,  an  elderly  man,  who  had  spent  his 
life  as  a  pressman,  and  had  risen  no  higher  than  local  jour- 
nalism, called  at  his  lodgings  to  exchange  a  report,  and 
sat  beside  his  fire  smoking  a  cigarette,  he  approached  the 
subject  of  fiction. 

1  It's  slow,  deadly  slow,  in  this  place,'  Rosmead  said 
with   a   sigh.      'Life  here  seems  absolutely   petrified.' 

'  Tired  of  it  —  eh  r '  asked  the  dark-bearded,  grave-eyed 
man,  who  habitually  wore  a  soft  black  felt  hat  and  a  grev 
woollen  muffler.  The  local  reporter  is  fond  of  a  literary 
appearance. 

'No,  not  tired,'  Rosmead  answered.  'Only  I  should 
like  to  contribute  stories  to  other  papers.  I  believe  thev 
pay   well   for  them  —  don't   they  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  but  it's  few  men  who  can  write  them,'  his  com- 
panion answered.  '  I  tried  myself  years  ago,  and  failed. 
Not  a  single  one  was   taken,  so   I  gave  it  up.' 

'  Don't  you  think  that  the  average  man,  if  he  perseveres, 
can  get  his  stuff  taken  :  '  Rosmead  asked,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  old  house- 
jacket,  easv  and  reminiscent  of  the  Quai  Montebello. 

'  No,'  answered  the  journalistic  failure,  with  some  bitter- 
ness, '  not  unless  you  know  the  editors.  It's  all  by  favour 
nowadays.' 

Rosmead  was  silent,  wondering  whether  this  man,  who 
had  spent  thirty  years  in  and  about  newspaper  offices,  spoke 
the    truth.      He    knew    no    editor,   and,   in   common    with 


64  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

amateur  writers,  regarded  them  with  awe,  as  a  sort  of 
superior  and  distinct  species.  These  emphatic  words  were 
terribly  disappointing. 

But  his  friend  was  one  of  those  flabby-hearted,  steady 
plodders  with  no  soul  above  local  journalism,  whose  ideas 
are  as  antiquated  as  the  tvpe  from  which  their  journals  are 
printed,  and  the  height  of  whose  ambition  is  to  '  do  a  bit 
of  lineage,'  namely,  to  supply  to  the  great  London  morn- 
ing papers  short  paragraphs  of  events  of  general  interest 
occurring  in  their  locality,  the  reward  for  which  varies 
from  half-a-crown  to  five  shillings.  Every  local  journalist, 
from  junior  reporter  to  editor,  is  ready  to  expound  his 
views  on  literature  in  general,  and  novel-writing  in  par- 
ticular, but  few  know  anything  at  all  about  it,  and  their 
criticisms  are  mainly  adverse,  because,  though  hopelessly 
devoid  of  literary  talent,  they  consider  themselves  quite 
equal  to  the  men  whose  names  they  see  appended  to  the 
various   classes  of  current  fiction. 

'  Then  you  think  there's  no  chance  for  the  unknown 
man  ?  '  Rosmead  observed,  gravely  contemplating  his 
cigarette. 

c  None,  my  dear  fellow,  none,'  the  elder  man  answered. 
'  The  fiction  market  is  overcrowded.  Amateurs  write, 
and  write  well  sometimes,  without  thought  of  payment ; 
others  are  ready  to  pay  for  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them- 
selves in  print,  and  in  this  cascade  of  fiction  pouring  into 
the  office  of  every  magazine  or  paper  which  publishes 
stories,  editors  can  fill  their  columns  for  nothing  if  they 
choose.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?  Are  you  thinking  of 
trying  the  experiment?'   he   inquired,  smiling. 

Rosmead  hesitated. 

c  Well,  yes,'  he  admitted.  '  But  of  course  you  needn't 
tell  anyone.  The  fellows  will  onlv  poke  fun  at  me.  I've 
already  written  one  or  two  things  for  Temple  Bar.3 


ONE   FACE  65 

'For  Temple  Bar?  '  cried  the  other,  in  surprise,  for  the 
fact  that  the  reporter  of  c  the  rag,'  as  the  Hounslow  Stand- 
ard was  usually  known  among  the  representatives  of  the 
Press,  had  actually  contributed  to  that  magazine  at  once 
raised  him  in  the  estimation  of  this  disappointed  scribe. 
'  I  see  the  magazine  every  month,  but  have  never  noticed 
your  name.      What  sort  of  stuff  do  vou  write  for  it  ?  ' 

1  French  verses,'  he  answered.  '  There  are  some  in  the 
current  number,'  and  taking  the  magazine  from  the  table, 
he  opened  it,  and  handed  it  to  his  friend. 

1  Do  vou  mean  to  say  that  you  wrote  those  ?  '  exclaimed 
the  other.  He  was  used  to  the  boasts  of  younger  jour- 
nalists, and   eyed   Rosmead   with   suspicion. 

c  I  did,'  the  latter  answered.  Then,  noticing  the  shadow 
of  doubt  upon  his  face,  he  took  from  the  table  a  letter  he  had 
received  from  the  editor  that  morning,  asking  for  another 
contribution.      Sight  of  this  was,  of  course,  convincing. 

c  Well,'  the  journalist  said  at  last, '  you  may  write  French 
verses  with  success,  because  it's  very  few  Englishmen  who 
can  do  it;  but  fiction  is  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
Take  my  advice,  and  don't  waste  your  time  in  endeavour- 
ing to  accomplish  the  impossible.  Better  become  a  good 
pressman  than  a  bad  novelist.  While  you've  got  a  berth 
on  a  paper,  you've  always  your  weekly  screw  ;  not  much, 
perhaps,  but  it's  sure.  As  a  writer  of  fiction  you  might 
slave  for  six  months  and  not  earn  sixpence.  No,  study 
the  journalistic  art  more  closely  ;  try  and  put  a  bit  more 
"guts"  into  your  leaders,  and  sling  in  a  bit  of  Latin  some- 
times. It  always  impresses  your  readers,  even  if  you  don't 
know  the  translation  yourself.  Then  in  a  few  years  you 
may  be  able  to  leave  here  and  get  on  a  decent  paper  in  the 
provinces,  possibly  even  a  daily.' 

1  I'd  like  to  be  on  a  London  daily,'  observed  Rosmead, 
in  all  seriousness. 

5 


66  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

His  friend  laughed  heartily  at  this  artless  remark. 

1  So  would  all  of  us,  mv  dear  fellow,'  he  said.  l  Eight 
pounds  a  week  and  all  expenses.  Only  fancy  !  But  such 
a  berth  isn't  to  be  dreamed  of.  No  M  local  man,"  in  all 
my  long  experience,  has  ever  gone  straight  to  a  London 
dailv,  and  every  local  man  who  has  tried  to  write  novels 
has  ignominiouslv  failed.' 

That  night,  when  he  returned  from  attending  a  stupid 
amateur  entertainment  at  Twickenham,  two  miles  away, 
Bertram  Rosmead  sat  alone  beside  his  fire,  reflecting 
deeply.  He  recollected  even'  word  his  friend  had  ut- 
tered, and  saw  how  utterly  hopeless  it  was  to  obtain  fame 
in  fiction.  As  a  journalistic  plodder,  a  mere  scribbler  of 
reports  and  commentator  on  local  intelligence,  he  might, 
after  a  few  years,  join  the  staff  of  a  better  journal  with 
slightly  increased  salary,  and  that  was  the  highest  level  to 
which  he  could  rise.  Like  his  friend,  he  must  remain 
and  grow  old  in  his  groove,  for  ever  scribbling  paragraphs 
anent  parish  teas  and  mothers'  meetings,  describing  sales 
of  work  and  juvenile  junketings,  or  commenting  in  high- 
falutin'  terms  upon  the  latest  scheme  of  sewerage,  or  the 
engaging  qualities  of  a  l  departed  fellow-townsman.' 

He  thought  all  this  over,  long  and  seriously.  Once  all 
his  hopes  had  been  wrecked,  all  life  crushed  from  him,  by 
the  fickleness  of  the  one  woman  he  adored.  His  friends  here 
in  England  knew  nothing  of  it.  It  was  a  secret  locked 
within  his  heart.  Often  in  moments  such  as  these  he 
wondered  how  Fosca  fared,  whether  Jean,  the  traitorous, 
oilv-mouthed  Frenchman,  had  already  deserted  her ; 
whether,  as  was  most  probable,  she  was  back  again,  pray- 
ing forgiveness  of  the  inebriate  Marquis.  Then  he  sighed, 
and  strove  to  cast  her  memory  from  him. 

Even  Teddy,  the  faithful,  ever-happy  Teddy,  had  gone 
out  of  his  life,  for,  after  he  had  left  the  Quartier  to  wander, 


ONE    FACE  67 

1  the  Bouchon,'  unable  to  live  there  alone  with  the  recol- 
lection of  Violette  upon  him,  had  left  to  studv  in  Florence. 
He  had  heard  this  from  a  mutual  friend  to  whom  he  had 
written,  but  none,  it  appeared,  knew  Teddy's  address. 
He  was  no  longer  a  Bohemian,  he  supposed  ;  no  longer 
one  of  themselves. 

Thoughts  of  the  past  possessed  him  that  night  as  the 
little  clock  ticked  on  in  the  dead  silence,  and  his  lamp 
spluttered  as  the  oil  became  exhausted.  He  pondered  sadly 
upon  the  discouraging  words  of  the  journalist.  To  write 
romance  was  the  one  absorbing  ambition  in  life,  for  he 
had  always  been  essentially  a  dreamer,  and  long  ago  had 
woven  strange,  weird  plots  in  his  mind  after  reading  the 
romances  of  Dumas,  Ohnet,  Bourget,  or  Poe. 

1  No,'  he  cried  aloud  at  last,  starting  to  his  feet  with  sud- 
den decision,  and  clenching  his  hands,  l  I  won't  be  beaten. 
I'll  try  again,  and  if  I  fail,  I'll  still  try,  and  try,  in  face  of 
all  thev  saw  Their  discouragement  shall  never  deter  me. 
I  know  I  had  no  talent  for  art,  but  believe  that  some  day  I 
mav  be  able  to  write  fiction,  to  intelligibly  relate  the  stories 
which  so  often  rise  involuntarilv  in  mv  mind.  To-morrow 
I'll  make  another  start  on  a  short  storv.' 

Four  manuscripts  were  lving  upon  the  table,  each  having 
been  around  to  several  papers,  and  each  c  declined  with 
thanks.'      His  eves  fell  upon  them. 

c  No  good,'  he  murmured.  c  I'll  write  fresh  ones,'  and 
taking  them  up,  he  cast  them  bodilv  into  the  fire.  \\  ith 
sadness  he  watched  the  flames  consume  them,  for  they  were 
the  result  of  many  weeks'  toil,  of  manv  long  nights  of  brain- 
racking.  It  was  a  sacrifice  to  burn  them,  but  he  was  pre- 
pared for  it,  prepared  for  anything  in  order  to  attain  his  end. 

Then,  when  the  flames  had  died  down,  he  sighed,  blew 
out  his  lamp,  and  went  to  bed. 

An  incident  occurred  on  the  following  night,  as  his  paper 


68  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

was  going  to  press,  which  opened  his  eyes  regarding  the 
treatment  of  fiction.  For  many  months  an  exciting  novel 
had  been  running  serially  in  the  paper,  supplied  from  Lon- 
don in  leaden  stereotyped  columns,  but  great  was  the  fore- 
man printer's  dismay,  on  making  up  the  paper,  to  find  that 
although  he  had  two  columns  of  the  story,  yet  there  was  no 
instalment  for  the  following  week,  and  it  was  not  con- 
cluded. Inquiries  were  made,  and  it  was  discovered  that  a 
lad  had  placed  the  two  final  chapters  in  the  melting-pot,  in 
order  to  manufacture  paper-weights. 

Rosmead  was  sitting  at  midnight  at  the  back  of  the  shop 
in  his  mouldy  den,  which,  never  having  been  swept  for 
years,  did  duty  as  editorial  office,  when  the  foreman  burst 
in,  saying,  in  those  sharp,  brief  tones  which  every  foreman 
printer  uses  — 

c  No  more  of  that  darned  yarn.  The  end's  been  melted 
up.' 

Rosmead  looked  up  from  reading  his  proof,  inquiringly, 
and  in  response  to  a  question,  the  appalling  facts  were 
explained. 

4  Well,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  '  the  editor  asked,  dismayed. 

c  Dry  it  up,'  was  the  prompt  rejoinder. 

1  How  can  vou,  when  nobody  in  the  office  has  read  it  ? 
I'll  have  a  look  at  it  presently.' 

1  No,  it's  the  boss's  orders  that  the  bally  sheet  goes  to 
press  at  twelve.  There  isn't  time  for  fussing  after  it,'  the 
man  answered,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  apron. 

4  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 

1  It's  already  done,  mister.  I've  comped  three  lines, 
married  a  couple  of  'em,  and  put  "  The  End."  The 
forme's  locked  up,  so  make  your  mind  easv.  We  make 
no  difficulties  in  this  office.  If  the  public  don't  like  it, 
thev  must  do  the  other  thing.' 

And  with  that  he  disappeared. 


ONE   FACE  69 

Next  morning  the  readers  of  the  exciting  serial  in  the 
Hounslow  Standard  were  mystified  and  amazed  to  find  that 
Lady  Geraldine,  already  a  wife,  had  been  abruptly  married 
to  a  burglar  ! 

In  the  months  that  followed,  every  moment  he  could 
snatch  from  the  trudging  hither  and  thither  consequent  on 
reporting  for  his  obscure  sheet,  he  spent  crouched  at  his 
table  struggling  to  write  short  stories,  gradually  acquiring  a 
slight  stoop,  so  long  and  diligently  he  sat.  To  the  thin- 
faced  relict  who  administered  to  his  daily  wants  his  studi- 
ous habits  were  remarkable.  '  My  young  man  never  goes 
out  and  about  o'  nights,  like  other  men,'  she  told  her 
gossiping  neighbours  of  the  lodging-letting  genus.  '  He's 
poring  for  ever  over  'is  writing  night  after  night,  till  I  fully 
expect  he'll  have  a  touch  of  brain  fever.  He  goes  nowhere  ; 
scarcely  anybody  comes  to  see  him  except  the  boy  from  the 
orfice,  who  brings  him  printed  bits  of  the  newspaper,  what 
he  calls  proofs.  He's  well  educated,  a  perfect  gentleman, 
my  dear — and  of  course  I  knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees 
one :  but  he's  a  bit  moody  like.  He  used  to  be  merry 
enough  when  he  first  came  to  me.  But  now  I  firmly  believe 
he's  got  some  trouble  or  other  on  his  mind,  poor  fellow.' 

The  'poor  fellow'  alluded  to  certainly  had  a  very  serious 
trouble  on  his  mind.  He  had  written  over  a  dozen  stories 
of  various  lengths,  and  had  sent  them  to  a  wide  variety  of 
papers,  but  fate  seemed  against  him,  for  not  a  single  one 
had  been  found  of  sufficient  merit  to  be  worth  publication. 
In  order  to  pay  the  postage  on  these  children  of  his  brain, 
he  had  been  forced  to  exercise  an  economy  which  at  first 
was  terrible  —  namely,  he  had  given  up  his  cigarettes,  for 
the  money  he  spent  in  them  weekly  gave  him  three  or  even 
four  chances  with  editors.  Therefore,  after  the  first  day 
or  so,  he  gladly  faced  the  difficulty,  although  it  must  be 
added   that  even   then  this  was   in  vain,  and   the  stamps  he 


70  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

so  hopefully  purchased  were  in  every  case  wasted.  There 
were  plain  signs,  too,  that  in  most  instances  his  manuscripts 
were  never  read,  and  these  discouraged  him  more,  perhaps, 
than  any  other  circumstance.  He  feared  that  editors  had 
become  tired  of  the  short,  polite  notes  accompanying  his 
screeds,  and  that  being  so,  he  believed  his  chance  of  success 
had  vanished  for  ever. 

There  is  a  low  tide  in  the  affairs  of  every  struggling 
literary  man  when,  crushed  beneath  his  ever-recurring  dis- 
appointments, and  disheartened  by  the  futility  of  his  attempts 
to  secure  a  footing  in  the  profession  that  it  is  his  aim  to 
join,  he  is  ready  to  retire  from  the  fray.  Bertram  Rosmead 
was  no  exception.  He  had,  as  is  usual  with  the  inexperi- 
enced writer,  tried  all  the  highest  class  publications  without 
bestowing  any  thought  upon  those  which  cater  for  the 
lower  classes.  No  writer  is  content  with  beginning  with 
the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder.  Ill  fortune  had  dogged  him 
so  persistently,  that  at  last  he  was  on  the  point  of  relin- 
quishing all  hope,  when  one  evening,  while  travelling  by 
train  between  Twickenham  and  Hounslow,  he  picked  up 
part  of  a  paper  which  had  been  left  in  the  compartment  by 
some  previous  traveller.  It  was  a  family  journal  he  had 
never  seen  before,  green-covered,  of  the  shape  and  style  of 
Tit-Bits,  published  in  Glasgow,  and  entitled  Scottish  Nights. 
He  saw  that  it  contained  stories  —  short  stories  by  persons 
whose  names  were  unknown  —  and  it  occurred  to  him  that, 
while  London  editors  had  conspired  against  him,  country 
editors  might  regard  his  contributions  a  little  more  favour- 
ably. So  he  carried  home  this  incomplete  journal,  and 
that  night  selected  two  of  his  short  stories,  which  were  the 
most  dramatic  in  his  own  estimation,  and  dispatched  them 
to  the  North. 

An  anxious  week  followed,  but,  sure  enough,  the  post- 
man   came  one   morning    and    handed   in    a   bulky    packet 


ONE   FACE  71 

which  he  knew  too  well  contained  his  rejected  manuscripts. 
In  despair  he  tore  open  the  packet,  but  next  second  uttered 
a  loud  exclamation  of  amazement,  when  he  discovered  that 
with  the  manuscript  were  the  proofs,  and  with  the  proofs 
a  cheque  for  two  guineas,  the  first  monev  he  had  earned 
bv  writing  fiction. 

At  last  he  had  taken  the  first  step.  He  was  no  longer  an 
amateur,  but  was  paid  for  his  contributions.  He  had  en- 
tered the  ranks  of  professional  romancers.  And  he  went 
forth  happily,  wTith  elastic  tread,  singing  to  himself  the  merry- 
song  in  the  chorus  of  which  he  had  so  often  joined  at 
Mother  Gery's  — 

Mimi,  Mimi  est  une  blonde, 
Une  blonde  que  Ton  connait; 
Elle  n'a  qu'une  robe  au  monde, 

Landerirette! 

Et  qu'un  bonnet. 

That  day  he  read  the  proofs  carefullv,  and  returned  them 
with  a  note  to  the  editor,  offering  further  work.  To  this 
came  a  polite  reply,  and  in  a  short  time  the  readers  of  that 
Scotch  weekly  periodical  knewT  the  name  of  Bertram  Ros- 
mead  as  a  regular  contributor  of  short  sensational  stories. 
Those  feuilletons  which  had  failed  to  attract  the  editors  of 
the  World,  Truth,  or  Vanity  Fair,  delighted  the  readers  over 
the  Border,  and  after  some  months  the  editor  found  his 
newly-discovered  contributor's  work  so  popular,  that  he 
expressed  his  readiness  to  consider  a  serial  story7  to  run 
eight  or  ten  weeks,  if  Mr.  Rosmead  cared  to  submit  one. 

Thus,  full  of  enthusiasm,  the  editor  of  the  Hounslow 
Standard  sat  down,  and  after  weeks,  nay  months,  of  hard 
work,  completed  his  first  novel.  It  was,  however,  a  pain- 
fully amateurish  attempt.  The  art  of  writing  serial  fiction 
is  acquired  only  bv  long  and  diligent  practice,  therefore  there 


72  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

was  little  wonder  that  the  editor  should  return  it  with  a  let- 
ter of  profound  regret  that  the  storv  l  was  not  of  a  character 
to  interest  his  readers.'  Truth  to  tell,  it  was  the  crudest 
sensation  possible,  with  a  blundering  and  impossible  love 
interest,  and  a  denouement  which  was  exposed  in  the  first 
chapter.  Such  a  piece  of  work  was  fit  only  for  one  thing  — 
to  light  the  fire  with  ;  but  the  editor  had  seen  that  his  un- 
known contributor  had  a  distinct  talent  for  writing  sto- 
riettes, and  therefore  hesitated  to  wound  his  feelings.  On 
the  contrary,  he  wrote  a  few  days  later  asking  for  further 
short  stories.  Eighteen  and  sixpence  or  a  guinea  was  not 
a  very  high  rate  of  remuneration  for  four  or  five  thousand 
words  of  fiction,  but  Rosmead,  in  the  first  flush  of  his  suc- 
cess, considered  it  a  very  handsome  reward,  and  was  more 
than  contented.  The  refusal  of  his  novel  disappointed  him 
bitterly,  but  having  grown  callous,  regarding  failure  as  the 
natural  outcome  of  enthusiasm,  he  cast  the  manuscript  aside, 
and  continued  to  write  the  briefer  and  more  crystallised 
fiction. 

Throughout  three  whole  years,  long  weary  years  of  toil 
and  disappointment,  with  scarcely  a  single  day's  holiday,  he 
worked  on,  by  day  scouring  his  district  to  pick  up  local 
news,  and  at  night  slaving  beneath  his  lamp,  striving  to  im- 
prove his  style,  taking  as  his  models  the  shorter  stories  of 
Maupassant,  of  Alontepin,  of  Pierre  Loti,  and  Zola's  inim- 
itable c  Stories  for  Ninon.'  In  those  idle  days  beside  the 
Seine,  he  had  read  diligently  many  second-hand  French 
novels  purchased  from  the  stalls,  and  therefore  endeavoured 
to  follow  the  lines  of  the  successful  feuilletonists.  Of 
English  fiction,  however,  he  knew  little  or  nothing. 

Gradually  he  extended  his  connection.  One  or  two 
manuscripts,  with  which  he  experimented,  were  accepted 
by  those  penny  pseudo-Society  journals  in  London  which 
make  a  point   of  publishing  a  short  story,  and  he  could  not 


ONE   FACE 


73 


disguise  the  fact  that  he  was  surely,  if  slowly,  developing 
into  a  writer  of  fiction. 

It  was  at  this  juncture,  when  one  night,  having  treated 
himself  to  a  little  mild  dissipation  in  the  form  of  a  visit  to 
London,  he  was  passing  along  Fleet  Street,  gazing  up  wist- 
fully at  the  brilliantly-lighted  newspaper  offices,  and  won- 
dering whether  some  day  he,  too,  might  not  spend  his  nights 
in  one  of  those  great  establishments,  where  the  work  was 
light  and  the  pay  handsome,  when  suddenly,  at  the  corner 
of  Chancery  Lane,  a  face,  passing  beneath  the  electric  light, 
attracted  him  —  a  face  more  pure,  more  regular  in  outline 
than  he  had  ever  before  witnessed. 

The  face  was  the  face  of  a  heroine  of  romance ;  a  trifle 
pale  and  wistful,  perhaps,  but  eminently  beautiful.  Was 
he  not  seeking  local  colour  for  the  romance  he  intended, 
ere  long,  to  write ;  was  he  not  wandering,  aimlessly,  that 
night,  in  the  great  world  of  London,  seeking  material  for 
the  book  which,  some  day,  would  make  his  name  world- 
famous  ? 

For  an  instant  he  hesitated.  Then  he  turned  and  fol- 
lowed her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    STUDENT    AND    THE    SUBJECT 

Alone,  she  was  walking  quickly  in  the  direction  of  Charing 
Cross,  a  neat,  erect  figure  in  black,  a  trifle  petite,  but  essen- 
tially dainty.  Already  she  had  gained  the  Law  Courts 
before  he  drew  up  behind  her,  and  then  he  saw  how  slim- 
waisted  and  neat-attired  she  was,  how  gracefully  she  walked, 
how  well  her  little  black,  jet-trimmed  bonnet,  with  its  tiny 
white  bird,  suited  her  dark  beauty. 

Since  Fosca  had  gone  out  of  his  life,  he  had  gazed  upon 
no  other  woman  with  admiration  until  that  moment.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve.  Literature 
was  his  mistress,  and  he  cared  for  little  else  beside  his  books 
and  the  old  littered  table  whereat  he  spent  the  silent  watches 
of  the  night.  He  was  not  one  to  be  easily  fascinated  by  a 
woman,  more  especially  now  that  Fosca  had  shattered  all 
his  belief  in  woman's  honesty  and  affection.  Even  though 
studiously  polite,  and  essentially  chivalrous,  he  was  inclined 
to  treat  the  fair  sex  with  calm  indifference,  and  never  sought 
their  society.  During  the  past  three  years,  he  had  lived 
only  with  his  books,  and  with  that  Bohemian  instinct,  in 
him  inborn,  cared  for  nothing  outside  the  range  of  his  own 
studies. 

He  passed  her,  pretending  to  hurry  on  without  noticing 
her,  but,  nevertheless,  casting  a  covert  glance  at  her  face. 
At  that  instant,  however,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  peered 
into  his,  with  a  glance,  half  of  inquiry,  half  of  annoyance. 


THE   STUDENT   AND   THE   SUBJECT       75 

She  was  about  twenty-one,  as  far  as  he  could  judge,  with  a 
pair  of  dimpled  cheeks,  eyes  dark  and  luminous,  a  small, 
delicate  nose  that  denoted  considerable  self-will,  and  a  high 
brow  shaded  bv  a  mass  of  fluffy  nut-brown  hair.  Her  black 
cloth  jacket,  short  and  smartly  made,  fitted  her  without  a 
crease;  her  skirt  hung  straight  in  graceful  folds  without 
dragging  at  the  back,  as  London  skirts  will  ;  and  pinned  to 
her  coquettish  little  muff  of  quilted  black  satin  was  a  bunch 
of  violets. 

Her  face,  among  all  others,  had  attracted  him,  because 
it  was  such  a  face  as  he  had  imagined  his  heroine  should 
possess.  He  decided  to  study  her  character,  her  virtues, 
and  her  weaknesses,  and  reproduce  her  in  his  pages  with 
the   fidelity   of  a  photograph   from  the  life. 

He  raised  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her.  It  never  occurred 
to  him,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  free  manners  of  the 
Quai  Montebello,  that  he  was  doing  anything  extraordinary 
in  thus  accosting  her,  or  seeking  to  force  himself  upon  her 
without  an  introduction.  She  glanced  at  him  for  an  instant, 
in  haughty  contempt,  then  lowered  her  eyes  modestly,  and 
slightly  quickened  her  pace.  Again  he  spoke,  but  without 
heeding  him,  she  turned  almost  at  right  angles  and  crossed 
the  road.  Undaunted  by  this  rebuff,  he  followed  her,  and 
a  few  minutes  later,  advancing  again  to  her  side,  expressed 
a  hope  that  he  had  caused  her  no  annoyance. 

4  Your  persistence  does  annoy  me,'  she  answered  briefly, 
glancing  severely  at  him. 

c  Then  I  trust  that  you  will  forgive  me,'  he  said,  with 
politeness. 

'  Forgiveness  is  quite  unnecessary,'  she  replied,  once 
again  looking  into  his  face. 

c  I  recognise  that  I  am  speaking  with  a  lady,'  he  ob- 
served.     c  I  trust  you  will  allow  me  to  treat  you  as  such.' 

c  Well  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  '   she  asked,  the  shadow 


76  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

of  annoyance  fading  from  her  face,  a  fact  which  showed 
him  that,  like  every  other  woman,  she  was  a  trifle  vain  of 
her  appearance  and  amenable  to  flattery. 

c  I  am  alone,'  he  responded,  with  a  boldness  which  sur- 
prised her.  '  I  want  your  companionship,  if  you  will  grant  me 
that  favour.  You,  too,  are  alone.  Is  there  any  reason  why 
we  should  not  spend  an  hour  or  so  in  each  other's  society  ? ' 

She  regarded  him  calmly,  and  saw  that  he  was  tall,  dark, 
and  good-looking,  beyond  the  average  run  of  the  men  who 
endeavoured  to  force  themselves  upon  her,  and  although  not 
very  well  dressed,  perhaps,  —  for  he  wore  a  thin  silver  watch- 
guard,  the  essence  of  bad  taste  in  man's  attire,  —  yet  there 
was  about  his  rather  long  hair  and  carelessly-tied  cravat  a 
dash  of  the  easy-going,  good-for-nothing  which  commended 
itself  to  her. 

Their  eyes  met.  He  laughed,  and  next  instant  had  won 
her  consent. 

Along  the  Strand,  across  Trafalgar  Square,  and  up  Pall 
Mall  he  strolled  at  her  side,  chatting  affably,  and  discussing 
commonplaces,  noting  with  minuteness  her  manner  and  her 
speech,  and  gauging  her  character  from  her  expressed 
pleasures  and  dislikes. 

Although  so  well  and  neatly  dressed,  it  was  apparent, 
ere  she  had  spoken  half-a-dozen  words,  that  she  was  not  a 
lady.  Her  grammar  was  very  faulty;  she  spoke  with  a 
drawl  that  showed  her  to  be  an  unmistakable  Cockney, 
using  such  words  as  '  chimbley  '  for  chimney,  '  skillington  ' 
for  skeleton,  and  referring  to  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance 
as  c  fellows.'      Her  name,  she  told  him,  was  Lena  Loder. 

'  And  may  I  write  and  see  you  again  ?  '  he  asked,  when, 
after  reaching  Piccadilly,  they  had  again  retraced  their  steps 
to  Charing  Cross  station,  where  she  said  she  must  leave 
him.  '  IVe  enjoyed  this  little  chat  immensely,  and  I  hope 
I  haven't  bored  you  too  much.' 


THE    STUDENT   AND    THE    SUBJECT       yy 

c  No,  not  at  all,'  she  declared;  nevertheless  it  was  evi- 
dent she  was  in  a  hurrv  to  escape  from  him. 

1  Then  to  where  may  I  address  the  letter  : '  he  asked. 

She  hesitated.      As  yet   she  was  undecided  whether  she 
really  liked  him. 

4  Well,'  she  said  at  last,  c  if  you  really  would   like  to  see 
me  again,  write  to  me  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre.' 

c  The  Adelphi  !  '  he  cried,  surprised.      c  Then  you  are  an 
actress  ?  ' 

1  Yes,'  she  laughed,  c  I'm  on  the  stage.' 

He   regarded   her  curiously.      For  the  past   hour  he  had 
been    inwardly    congratulating    himself  upon    his  ability  to 
read  her  character  as  easily  as  though  it  were  an  open  book. 
He    had   imagined    her   to   be  the  daughter  of   some   small 
tradesman,  or  perhaps   a  c  show-room  '  hand   at  one   of  the 
Oxford   Street  drapery  establishments,  for  she   had  spoken 
with  all  the  slang  used  by  young  ladies  of  that  class,  who 
are  fond  of  talking  of  their  c  fellows,'  of  their  Sunday  trips 
to  Richmond  or   Hampton   Court,  or  of  their  visits  to  the 
Oxford,    the    Royal,    or  the    Alhambra    on    winter   nights. 
The  craze  for  the  Cinderella,  too,  —  for  every  large  drapery 
house  now  has  its  Cinderella  dances,  —  is  one  of  the  outward 
and  visible  signs  of  the  modern  shop-girl ;   though  it  must 
be   said   that   hearts  as    brave   and  tender  beat  beneath  the 
cotton   corsets   of  the    counter-slave   as   beneath    the  long- 
waisted,  Paris-made   satin    ones    of   the    lady   of    Mayfair. 
Lena    had   expressed   her  fondness  for  cinderellas,  and  the 
student    of  character   had   been   misled    by   this    and   other 
statements    into   a  belief  that  her  calling  was  the  same   as 
Fosca's  had  been. 

1  I'm  really  surprised  to  know  you're  an  actress,'  he  said. 
c  I  know  several  actresses,  —  French  ones,  —  but  they're  not 
at  all  like  you.' 

1  But  I'm  English,'  she  laughed.     '  I   suppose  that's  the 


78  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

difference.  I've  been  in  the  "  'Arbour  Lights  "  ever  since 
the  first  night  —  a  year  and  a  half  ago  now.' 

'  But  the  theatre  is  open  to-night,  and  you're  not  there  !  ' 
he  exclaimed,  puzzled. 

'I'm  due  now,'  she  answered  hurriedly.  c  So  I  must  go. 
Good-bye.      Then  you'll  write  —  eh  ?  ' 

'Yes,'  he  answered,  lifting  his  hat,  as  he  grasped  her 
small  hand.  '  I'll  write  in  a  day  or  two,  and  we  will  have 
another  walk.      Good-bye.' 

She  laughed  gaily,  and  next  moment  was  lost  in  the 
hurrying  crowd. 

As  he  walked  across  Hungerford  foot-bridge  to  Waterloo 
Station  to  take  his  train  back  to  dreary,  suburban  Hounslow, 
he  laughed  aloud  at  his  little  adventure.  He  was  not  enam- 
oured of  her  in  the  slightest  degree.  True,  her  face  was 
beautiful,  but  her  beauty  was  more  that  of  a  brown-haired, 
waxen  doll  than  of  a  woman,  and  her  painful  ignorance  of 
one  or  two  subjects  he  had  broached  jarred  upon  his  highly 
sensitive  nature.  A  dry,  supercilious  laugh  escaped  him 
when  he  reflected  upon  the  sole  reason  which  had  prompted 
him  to  approach  her,  and  the  result  of  his  observations. 
She  was  wild,  unsympathetic,  uneducated,  with  no  soul 
above  the  cinderella  or  the  theatre ;  she  loved  London, 
revelled  in  its  ceaseless  turmoil,  and  hated  the  country,  be- 
cause, as  she  declared,  its  dulness  bored  her  to  death.  He 
had,  on  first  sight  of  her,  imagined  her  as  a  heroine.  How 
mistaken  sometimes  are  our  first  impressions  ! 

That  night  he  went  home  with  a  feeling  that  his  evening 
had  been  distinctly  wasted.  He  had  studied  a  woman's 
character,  and  only  found  what  had  irritated  and  disgusted 
him.  He  compared  her  with  Fosca,  the  vivacious,  neat- 
ankled,  hoydenish,  but,  nevertheless,  educated  and  refined 
Fosca,  that  child  of  Bohemia  he  had  loved  so  tenderly. 
The  comparison  was  hideous.     This  little  Lena,  who  acted 


THE    STUDENT   AND   THE   SUBJECT       79 

in  the  c  'Arbour  Lights  '  was,  from  every  point  of  view, 
odious.      He  resolved  not  to  see  her  again. 

His  first  experiment  in  the  study  of  character  had  cer- 
tainly not  been  a  success. 

Lying  on  his  table,  he  found  a  letter  from  a  magazine 
editor,  asking  for  another  of  his  French  poems,  and  that 
night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  he  sat  with  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  and  wrote  the  following  in  pencil,  in  imitation  of 
Alusset : — 

Beau  chevalier  qui  partez  pour  la  guerre, 

Qu'allez-vous  faire 

Si  loin  d'ici  ? 
Voyez-vous  pas  que  la  nuit  est  profonde 

Et  que  le  monde 

N'est  que  souci  ? 

Vous  qui  croyez  qu'une  amour  delaissee 

De  la  pensee 

S'enfuit  ainsi, 
Helas!  helas!  chercheurs  de  renommee, 

Votre  fumee 

S'envole  aussi. 

Beau  chevalier  qui  partez  pour  la  guerre, 

Qu'allez-vous  faire 

Si  loin  de  nous  ? 
J' en  vais  pleurer,  moi  qui  me  laissais  dire 

Que  mon  sourire 

Etait  si  doux. 

In  the  davs  that  followed,  he  found  himself  thinking  a 
good  deal  of  Lena,  not  because  he  had  been  attracted  by 
her  pretty  face,  nor  bv  anv  good  qualitv  she  possessed,  but 
simply  because  he  believed  that,  as  a  character  in  his  book, 
she  might  be  useful  after  all.  There  was  something  about 
her  that  was  uncommon,  although  he  was  unable  to  accu- 
rately   define    it.       Thus    he    became    interested    in     her,. 


80  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

Therefore,  after  some  deliberation,  he  wrote,  met  her  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  strolled  with  her  across  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, and  again  placed  her  on  the  dissecting  table,  with  the 
same  disappointing  results  as  before. 

On  every  subject  but  one  she  spoke  freely.  She  avoided 
all  reference  to  the  theatre. 

He  found  her  merry  and  amusing  enough,  even  though 
the  ignorance  she  betrayed  caused  him  numberless  twinges, 
and  later,  when  he  took  her  to  supper  at  the  Cafe  Monico, 
that  garish  restaurant,  so  popular  among  shop-assistants  and 
foreign  clerks  on  Sunday  evenings,  he  found  she  was  evi- 
dently no  stranger  there. 

On  several  other  occasions  they  met  and  went  for  long 
walks  together.  Sometimes  he  would  afterwards  reproach 
himself  for  thus  wasting  his  time  ;  for  he  had  been  one 
evening  secretly  to  the  Adelphi,  and  had  there  seen  his  lit- 
tle friend.  She  had,  he  discovered,  but  a  thinking  part, 
forming  one  of  a  crowd  of  fisher-girls,  her  chief  work  being 
to  carry  a  basket,  and  shade  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  as  if 
watching  for  the  return  of  the  fishing-smack  supposed  to  be 
having  a  rough  time  of  it  somewhere  on  the  painted  back- 
cloth.  Such  duties  were  certainly  not  arduous.  She  was 
1  on   the   stage,'  and   that  was  about  all. 

Unaware  that  he  had  seen  her  across  the  footlights,  she 
one  evening,  in  response  to  his  questions,  told  him  about 
herself.  It  was  a  sad  story,  and  as  she  related  it,  he  saw 
how  her  gaiety  faded.  She  was,  it  appeared,  the  daughter 
of  an  artist,  once  well  known  and  prosperous  ;  but  who, 
through  drink,  had  been  ruined,  and  had  died  fifteen  years 
before  from  injuries  received  in  a  street  accident  while 
intoxicated.  Her  mother  had  been  left  alone,  without  re- 
sources, with  four  children,  all  girls,  dependent  upon  her, 
and  in  order  to  support  them  had  been  compelled  to  clean 
chambers  and  act  as  l  laundress  '  to  gentlemen  in  the  Tern- 


THE    STUDENT   AXD    THE    SUBJECT       Si 

pie.  Of  her  sisters,  one  had  married  a  worthless,  drunken 
scamp,  who  now  starved  his  wife  and  existed  in  the  direst 
poverty,  while  the  other,  who  had  always  been  weak  and 
ailing,  had  now  been  bedridden  for  the  past  three  years,  suf- 
fering from  consumption  in  complication  with  other  diseases. 
Lena  alone  worked,  and  her  salary  of  eighteen  shillings  a 
week,  together  with  what  her  mother,  aged  seventy,  earned 
by  l  doing  for  '  a  barrister  in  the  Temple,  just  sufficed  to 
keep  a  home  over  their  heads. 

She  told  her  wretched  storv  simply,  sighing  when  she 
mentioned  her  mother,  and  speaking  in  confidence  to  Ros- 
mead,  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life.  If  the  truth 
were  told,  she  liked  him  for  his  easy-going  disposition,  and 
her  estimate  of  him  was  considerably  increased  by  the  sym- 
pathy he  now  expressed  with  her. 

c  Then  you  live  close  bv  the  theatre,  I  suppose  ?  '  he 
remarked. 

c  Not  ven"  far  off.  Our  neighbourhood  isn't  a  very 
salubrious  one,'  she  laughed  sadly.  '  We  live  in  Gough 
Square,  at  the  back  of  Fleet  Street.  Mother  has  lived 
there   for  twenty   years.' 

c  Gough  Square  !  '  he  exclaimed,  surprised.  He  knew 
the  spot,  a  small  paved  square,  approached  by  one  of  the 
dark,  narrow  courts  off  Fleet  Street,  and  surrounded  by 
great  printing  establishments,  book-binders,  paper  ware- 
houses, type-founders,  and  kindred  trades.  The  trees  under 
which  Dr.  Johnson  loved  to  walk  have  disappeared  long 
ago.  In  that  vicinity  there  were  no  residents,  the  old,  red, 
dirt-grimed  houses,  of  notable  proportions  a  century  ago, 
being  now  let  out  as  offices  to  engravers,  agents,  and  un- 
important journals,  for  it  was  the  very  heart  of  newspaper 
London,  hemmed  in  on  every  side  by  great,  high  buildings, 
excluding  light  and  air.  Truly  it  was  not  by  any  means  a 
salubrious   spot,  the  atmosphere  thick  with   the  soot  of  a 


82  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

myriad  chimneys,  and  the  odour  of  printing  ink,  and 
crowded  at  mid-day  with  c  comps.'  and  apprentices,  who 
smoked,  swore,  and  idled  away  their  dinner  hour.  In  these 
meagre,  sordid,  unhealthy  surroundings,  Lena  had  been  bred 
and  born.  Was  it,  then,  any  wonder  that  her  growth 
should  be  stunted,  her  limbs  thin  and  fragile,  or  her  speech 
should  savour  of  the  dialect  of  Farringdon  Market;  that 
she  forgot  to  aspirate  her  c  h's,'  or  that  her  education  had 
progressed  no  further  than  what  had  been  imparted  to  her 
at  the  Board  School  round  in  Fetter  Lane  ? 

Rosmead  felt  deeply  touched.  It  was  evident,  however, 
that  she  liked  the  stage,  for  she  presently  related  with  pride 
how,  for  five  years  running,  she  had  been  engaged  by 
Augustus  Harris  as  one  of  the  chorus  in  the  Drury  Lane 
pantomime,  of  the  amusing  incidents  which  so  often 
occurred  'behind,'  of  the  beauty  of  the  dresses,  and  the 
revels  on  Twelfth  Night,  when  the  Baddeley  cake  was  cut. 
Nevertheless,  underlying  this  superficial  gaiety  was  a  heart 
overburdened  with  sorrow,  a  brave  little  heart,  which 
struggled  on  to  assist  her  mother,  and  to  provide  necessities 
for  her  invalid   sister. 

Soon  the  pair  became  fast  friends,  and  once  or  twice,  at 
Rosmead's  invitation,  she  travelled  down  to  Hounslow, 
arriving  at  mid-day,  eating  a  homely  chop  with  him,  and 
then  walking  along  the  picturesque  winding  road  past 
Kneller  Hall  to  Twickenham,  or  across  the  bare  brown 
fields  to  old-world  Isleworth,  that  quiet,  peaceful  village  by 
the  river  side.  They  would  return  to  his  lodgings  for  tea, 
and  then  she  would  catch  her  train  back  to  town  in  time 
for  the  theatre,  having,  as  she  would  afterwards  relate  to 
the  other  girls  in  the  dressing-room,  spent  l  a  day  in  the 
country.' 

Two,  or  even  three  times  each  week  they  met,  either  in 
London  or  at  Hounslow,  and  he  found  himself  neglecting 


THE    STUDENT   AND   THE    SUBJECT       83 

his  work  sadly.  He  did  not  love  her,  did  not  even  admire 
her,  except  for  her  honest,  valiant  efforts  to  support  her 
mother's  dingy  home  ;  yet  he  found  her  verv  amusing,  with 
her  bright  chatter  of  the  theatrical  world,  a  world  unknown 
to  him. 

At  last,  one  dav  in  Januarv,  when  thev  had  been  ac- 
quainted nearly  two  months,  and  she  was  sitting  beside  his 
fire  drinking  her  tea  prior  to  returning  to  Waterloo,  she 
looked  at  him  gravely  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  sud- 
denlv   burst   into  tears. 

He  jumped  up,  and  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  asked 
what   ailed   her. 

At  first  she  would  not  answer  \  but  at  length,  after  mam- 
repeated  inquiries,  she  faltered,  raising  her  tear-stained  eves 
to  his  — 

1  I'm  verv,  verv  unhappv.  Forgive  me  for  making  a 
fool  of  mvself.' 

4  Unhappy  !     Why  ? ' 

1  I'm  going  to  leave  home,'  she  answered  briefly. 

1  Why  ?  What  has  occurred  ? '  he  asked.  He  knew 
nothing  of  her  home,  having  onlv  seen  its  exterior,  one  of 
the  grimiest  of  all  in  that  decaved  little  square. 

c  It's  impossible  to  live  there  anv  longer,'  she  said.  c  I 
do  mv  best,  vet  nobodv  is  satisfied.  My  step-sister  is 
alwavs  creating  discord  and  making  my  life  unbearable.' 

c  Your  step-sister  ?  Who  is  she  ?  You've  never  told 
me   of  her  before,'   he   said. 

4  My  mother  married  twice,'  Lena  explained,  c  and  mv 
step-sister  lives  with  us.  She's  thirtv-five,  and  earns  a 
little  over  at  Spottiswoode's  at  the  bookbinding.  But  her 
temper's  unbearable.  She's  everlastingly  nagging  at  poor 
mother  and  me,  and  then  Man'  has  the  fits  come  on  her. 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I've  done  my  best,  Heaven 
knows.' 


84  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

c  Yes,'  he  replied  sympathetically,  1 1  believe  you  have, 
little  one.  It's  a  shame,  a  great  shame,  that  they  should 
treat  you  so.  But  if  I  were  vou,  I'd  bear  up.  Don't  show 
that  these  words  of  your  step-sister  annoy  you.' 

1  No,'  she  said  decisively.  '  I've  threatened  to  go  lots  of 
times,  and  I  now  mean  it.      They've  driven  me  from  home.' 

1  But  where  will  you  go  ?  ' 

1  I  don't  know.' 

1  Have  you  no  friends  with  whom  you  can  live  ? ' 

1  No,  none,'  she  replied,  shaking  her  head  sorrowfully. 
c  Girls  like  me  don't  have  many  friends.  Everybody  looks 
upon  the  stage  with  suspicion.' 

He  sighed.  What  she  said  was  quite  correct.  The 
standard  of  morality  among  female  supernumeraries  at 
theatres  is  not  calculated  to  inspire  confidence  in  respect- 
able females  of  that  genus  known  as  (  motherly.'  No,  it 
was  not  surprising  that  Lena  was  friendless. 

That  night,  after  she  had  left  him,  he  sat  with  his  chin 
resting  upon  his  hand.  Her  sorrow  had  secured  his  sym- 
pathy, for  impressionable,  tender-hearted,  and  ever  ready  to 
render  assistance  to  those  in  need,  although  he  was  often  in 
sore  straits  himself,  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  treated  in 
this  fashion.  Perhaps  her  work  was  not  really  hard  at  the 
theatre,  but  it  was  work  surrounded  by  pitfalls ;  work  amid 
a  crowd  of  women  whose  standard  was  little  better  than 
those  painted  daughters  of  the  pavement  who  trailed  their 
skirts  up  and  down  the  ever-busy  Strand ;  work  that 
dulled  all  sense  of  refinement,  and  that  took  her  home  at 
midnight,  alone,  unprotected,  and  exposed  to  all  kinds  of 
insults. 

Yes,  his  first  estimate  of  her  had  been  premature  and 
ill-judged.  He  had  seen  her  through  spectacles  of  cynicism, 
and  the  vista  had  been  a  distorted  one.  Now  he  looked 
upon  her  as  her  true  self  —  an  honest,  hard-working,  self- 


THE    STUDENT  AND   THE   SUBJECT      85 

denying   girl   of  the   people,  fitted   in  every  way  to  become 
his  heroine. 

But  she  intended  to  leave  home  and  go  and  live  among 
strangers.  Eighteen  shillings  a  week  would  not  keep  her 
respectablv  and  pay  for  her  lodgings.  If  she  left  home, 
then  the  inevitable  would  result  —  it  must  result.  He 
shuddered  to  think  of  it. 

Again  the  dark,  handsome  face  and  sparkling  eyes  of 
Fosca  arose  before  him,  but  with  a  cry  of  anger  he  cast 
aside  the  remembrance,  and  thought  of  Lena,  the  brave 
little  woman  who  had  sat  there  in  his  chair,  and  unbosomed 
to  him  the  cause  of  her  unhappiness. 

He  was  silent  and  thoughtful  a  long  time,  reviewing 
his  own  position  and  hers.  Then  at  last  he  rose,  with 
sudden,  chivalrous  resolve.  He  did  not  love  her;  he  could 
never  love  her.  It  was  sheer  madness,  he  knew.  The 
old  adage  said  that  pity  was  akin  to  love.  Well,  he  pitied 
her.      She  was  in  peril,  and  he  would  save  her  from  ruin. 

He  seated  himself  at  his  table  and  wrote  her  a  long 
letter,  explaining  his  position  plainly  and  honestly,  and 
asking  her  to  meet  him  in  London  next  afternoon. 

They  met,  and  before  they  parted  Lena  Loder,  the 
walking  lady  in  the  '  'Arbour  Lights,'  had  promised  to 
become  the  wife   of  Bertram   Rosmead,  journalist. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

GREY    DAYS 

Lena's  marriage  was  not  longed  delayed.  She  packed  a 
trunk  a  week  later  and  left  home,  telling  her  mother  she 
could  not  remain  there  any  longer  on  account  of  Annie's 
continual  ill-temper.  An  hour  later  she  met  Bertram  at 
Ludgate  Hill  station,  and  drove  with  him  to  the  registry 
office  in  the  Blackfriars  Road,  where  they  were  made  man 
and  wife,  two  cabmen  acting  as  witnesses,  and  receiving 
five  shillings   as  their  reward. 

Three  days  were  spent  at  Brighton,  the  longest  absence 
he  could  take  from  his  journalistic  duties ;  then  they 
returned  to  Hounslow,  taking  up  their  quarters  in  two 
furnished  rooms  in  a  tiny  cottage,  one  of  a  row  inhabited 
mostly  by  railway  porters  and  employes  at  the  neighbour- 
ing gunpowder-mills.  Bertram's  salary  as  editor  was 
still,  as  it  had  been  from  the  first,  thirty  shillings  weekly, 
an  application  for  a  rise  having  met  with  a  distinct  and 
firm  refusal,  and  this  combined  with  his  average  earnings 
from  his  Scotch  paper  amounted  to  about  two  pounds 
weeklv,  a  sum  which  certainly  did  not  admit  of  many 
luxuries.  In  order,  however,  to  further  increase  their 
slender  income,  Lena  decided  to  retain  her  engagement  at 
the  theatre,  pointing  out  that,  even  if  she  spent  seven 
shillings  a  week  in  railway  fares  to  and  from  Waterloo,  and 
expended  threepence  a  night  on  her  supper  of  that  high- 
smelling,  oleaginous  delicacy  dear  to  the  palate  of  every 
chorus  girl,  fried  fish,  she  would  still  earn  nine  and  six- 
pence a  week,  which  would  be  a  great  help  to  them. 


GREY  DAYS  87 

She  was  a  thrifty  little  woman,  so,  stifling  the  feelings 
of  misgiving  that  arose  within  him  at  thought  of  her  being 
compelled  to  return  alone  long  past  midnight,  he  allowed 
her  to  have  her  own  way  and  retain  her  c  thinking  part  '  in 
Mr.  Sims's  popular  drama.  She  was  filled  with  gratitude 
towards  him  for  having  taken  her  from  her  uncongenial 
home,  and,  t>v  reason  of  that,  exhibited  towards  him  some 
show  of  affection,  but  before  many  weeks  had  passed,  the 
ghastly  truth  was  forced  upon  him  that  he  did  not  and 
could   not  love  her. 

His  marriage  had  been  a  foolish,  romantic  affair,  brought 
about  entirely  by  her  affectation  of  unhappiness.  Her 
conversation,  vulgar  and  uneducated,  jarred  always  upon 
him ;  she  was  fond  of  the  slang  of  the  dressing-room,  and 
almost  before  the  novelty  of  marriage  wore  off,  began  to 
tire  of  her  quiet  daily  life  at  Hounslow  and  look  forward 
nightly  to  her  journey  to  London.  In  the  daytime  his 
duties  took  him  out  a  great  deal,  and  she  was  thrown  upon 
the  society  of  the  landlady,  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was 
absent  all  the  week,  being  an  omnibus-conductor  in 
London,  while  in  the  evening,  as  soon  as  Bertram  came 
home,  it  was  time  for  her  to  catch  her  train  to  Waterloo. 

Rosmead,  sensitive,  good-hearted,  easy-going  fellow  that 
he  was,  could  not  close  his  eyes  to  the  one  glaring  fact 
that  he  had  made  a  terrible  mistake  —  an  error  that  he 
feared  might  cost  him  his  future.  He  had,  out  of  sheer 
kindness  of  heart,  allied  himself  with  this  vain,  feather- 
brained little  figurante,  and  gradually  found  himself  detest- 
ing the  sight  of  her.  At  night,  when  she  was  absent,  he 
strove  hard  at  his  table,  as  he  had  done  in  his  bachelor 
days,  writing  short  stories,  a  rondeau  or  two,  a  few  sonnets, 
and  a  chanson  in  imitation  of  l  Lorsque  la  Coquette  Esp'e- 
rance'  of  his  master,  Musset.  Success,  however,  came 
very  slowly.      Not  one  quarter  he  wrote  could   he  dispose 


88  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

of,  and  often,  when  alone,  he  felt  inclined  to  abandon  all 
thought  of  ever  earning  a  living  wage  at  anything  else  but 
journalism. 

As  summer  came  and  went,  he  saw  plainly  that  Lena 
was  dissatisfied.  She  had  told  him  how  more  than  one  of 
4  the  girls '  at  the  theatre  lived  in  snug  little  flats,  and  how 
one  came  everv  night  in  her  brougham,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  that  she  was  thinking  that  such  a  life  was  preferable  to 
being  the  wife  of  a  slave  of  the  lamp.  Yet  with  calm 
philosophv  he  smothered  his  feelings,  and  outwardly  ex- 
hibited no  sign  of  disappointment,  annoyance,  or  bitterness 
of  heart.  Towards  her  he  was  just  as  affectionate,  just  as 
tender,  as  he  had  ever  been,  for  he  had  taken  a  step  blindly 
and  foolishly,  and  the  consequences  were  upon  his  own 
head,  to  bear  them  lightly  or  heavily,  just  as  he  chose. 
He  struggled  hard  to  bear  them  lightly,  but  it  cost  him 
many  hours  of  serious  thought  as  he  trudged  over  those 
flat,  dusty  roads  to  Feltham,  to  Twickenham,  or  to  Isle- 
worth  in  search  of  news,  and  it  was  not  long  before  his 
brother  journalists,  all  of  whom  had  been  introduced  to 
Lena,  shrewdly  guessed  the  truth.  In  desperation  he 
worked  at  night,  never  resting,  even  on  Sundays,  ever 
struggling  to  gain  a  foothold  in  the  profession  that  would 
take  him  out  of  that  dull,  dreary  round,  yet  always  failing, 
until  his  forehead  became  lined,  and  his  brave,  honest  heart 
callous  and  world-weary. 

One  day  in  late  autumn,  however,  Lena  openly  declared 
her  disgust  with  her  life  and  surroundings.  She  was 
sitting  in  their  tiny  living-room,  with  its  cheap  suite 
covered  with  red  velvet,  that  bore  so  unmistakably  the 
stamp  of  the  shop  where  weekly  payments  were  taken, 
and  having  finished  her  tea,  prior  to  leaving  for  the  theatre, 
was  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  fire. 

c  I'm  sick   of  this   confounded    hole,'   she  said,  pouting. 


GREY   DAYS  89 

'It's  simply  disgusting.  Nothing  to  see,  and  nowhere  to 
go.  In  London  you  can  take  a  ride  on  a  'bus ;  but  here, 
when  you  go  out,  you  only  have  lonely  country  roads. 
It's  horrible.' 

'  Ah  ! '  he  said,  sighing,  c  I  am  sorry,  dear,  deeply  sorry, 
that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  live  in  London.  My  work 
lies   here,  you   know.' 

*  But  you're  always  stuck  over  your  table,  slaving  away, 
puzzling  your  brain,  and  earning  nothing,'  she  observed. 

Her  words  stung  him  to  the  quick.  It  was  true  he  had 
striven  hard,  denying  himself  any  hours  of  recreation,  deny- 
ing her  the  hours  he  might  have  devoted  to  her  entertain- 
ment, with  one  object  in  view,  —  namely,  to  earn  sufficient 
to  avoid  the  necessity  of  her  having  to  go  to  London  each 
night  in  all  weathers  to  gain  the  modest  sum  of  nine  and 
sixpence  weekly.  He  had  tried,  yet  failure  still  dogged  his 
footsteps.  He  was  still  unknown,  still  among  the  Great 
Unpublished. 

4  I  have  done  my  best,'  he  answered,  simplv  and  quietly. 

*  It's  a  poor  look  out  for  us,  I'm  thinking,'  she  said 
bluntly.  c  If  writing  don't  pay,  then  why  don't  you  take  to 
something  else  ?  Of  late  you  seem  to  be  getting  quite  the 
old  man.' 

1  I  know  it,'  he  answered,  striving  to  stifle  the  sigh  which 
escaped  him.  He  was  working  against  fearful  odds,  and 
these  cruel  words  of  hers  disheartened  him.  l  If  I  could 
only  get  one  book  taken,  I  might  then  be  able  to  move  out 
of  this  place  ;  but  at  present  I  have  no  real  success  —  none. 
One  or  two  of  my  stories  and  a  few  verses  have  appeared 
in  the  magazines,  but  all  anonymously.  Therefore  I'm 
still  unknown.' 

c  Name  is  everything  nowadays,  I  suppose,'  she  said  re- 
flectively. '  It  must  be,  judging  from  the  dreadful  rot  one 
reads  by  well-known  people  in  the  Sunday  papers.' 


90  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

He  reflected  that  what  she  vulgarly  denounced  as  c  rot ' 
was  often  the  finest  and  most  finished  fiction.  She  appre- 
ciated a  Family  Herald  supplement;  but  one  day  when  she 
had  taken  up  Zola's  c  Stories  for  Ninon,'  she  had  quickly 
flung   it  aside  as  stupid  and  uninteresting. 

c  I'm  trying  to  make  a  name,'  he  said,  swallowing  the 
resentment  that  arose  within  him,  and  speaking  tenderly, 
but  with  a  voice  that  trembled.  '  Everyone  at  first  must 
have  their  share   of  disappointments.' 

c  And  you're  having  the  pretty  full  share  of  yours,'  she 
smiled  rather  cynically.  '  I  really  can't  see  the  use  of  mak- 
ing your  life  a  burden  and  slaving  away  like  this  for  nothing. 
Surely  a  couple  of  years  of  trying  to  get  on  has  shown 
you  that  it's  hopeless.  To  my  mind,  you're  only  wasting 
time.' 

c  Then  you  think  that  I  shall  never  be  successful  ? '  he 
asked  gravely. 

c  It  isn't  possible,  buried  as  you  are  down  in  this  hole,' 
she  declared.  c  To  get  your  things  taken  you  must  be  on 
the  spot,  and  know  the  people.  You'll  never  be  known 
while  you  stick  down  here  on  this  rag  of  a  paper.' 

He  bit  his  lip. 

lI  shall  make  a  change  as  soon  as  I  can,'  he  said.  c  At 
present  I  know  of  no  opening  elsewhere.' 

c  Well,  I  hope  we'll  get  away  from  here  very  soon,  for 
I'm  utterly  sick  of  this  dreary  life,'  she  said,  and  a  moment 
later  she  left  him  to  put  on  her  jacket  and  hat. 

When  she  had  hurried  out  to  catch  her  train,  he  stood 
for  a  long  time  in  the  same  attitude  in  which  she  had  left 
him.  He  had  hampered  himself  with  her,  a  vain,  coquet- 
tish, brainless  girl  of  the  people,  the  very  last  woman  fitted 
to  become  the  wife  of  a  man  of  his  culture  and  refinement. 
Yet  he  had  not  complained,  even  though  the  ghastly  truth 
had   been  forced   daily  upon  him.      His  marriage  had   been 


GREY   DAYS  91 

a  wretched,  dismal  failure,  but,  with  the  instinct  of  the 
Bohemian,  he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  let  it  pass. 
To  be  a  true  Bohemian  one  must  have  no  sorrows,  no 
regrets  ;  one  must  live  in  the  present,  and  allow  the  past 
and  the  future  to  take  care  of  themselves.  Her  discontent, 
and  her  doubt  in  his  abilities,  discouraged  him  more  than 
any  other  adverse  circumstance.  He  was  downcast,  un- 
manned, soul-sick. 

Lena  had  taken  an  earlier  train  to  town  than  usual,  on 
pretence  that  she  wanted  to  purchase  something  before  go- 
ing to  the  theatre,  but  really  because  she  was  anxious  to  get 
into  that  movement  and  bustle  which  was  to  her  her  very 
life.  On  arrival  at  Waterloo,  she  found  she  had  yet  two 
hours  to  spare  before  being  due  at  the  theatre,  therefore  she 
took  an  omnibus  to  Fleet  Street  to  visit  her  mother. 

Her  home  was  indeed  a  comfortless,  meagre  one.  When 
she  entered  the  single  back  room  in  which  she  had  spent 
nearly  the  whole  of  her  life,  she  found  her  mother,  a  small, 
stunted  old  lady  in  shabbv  black,  her  hair  still  dark,  not- 
withstanding her  age,  seated  on  a  rickety  chair  by  the  fire, 
while  at  the  further  end  stood  the  bed  on  which  lay  her 
invalid  sister,  moaning  and  coughing,  with  another  smaller 
couch  close  by  it.  The  carpet  had  long  ago  lost  all  traces 
of  pattern,  the  old  mahogany  chest  of  drawers  was  of  a  style 
in  vogue  a  century  ago,  chipped  and  broken,  and  upon 
that  antiquated  article  of  furniture  stood  a  couple  of  shell- 
covered  boxes,  a  stand  of  wool  abominations  supposed  to 
represent  flowers,  and  a  large  familv  Bible,  while  the  square 
table  in  the  centre,  rickety  as  was  the  other  furniture,  was 
covered  with  a  piece  of  brown  American  cloth.  A  piece 
of  string,  stretched  across  the  apartment  from  end  to  end, 
showed  that  sometimes  clothes  were  hung  there  to  dry,  and 
the  room  smelt  strongly  of  the  pair  of  kippers  which  mother 
and  daughter  had  eaten  for  their  tea.     The  poor  girl  upon 


92  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

the  bed,  wan,  white-faced,  and  haggard  from  years  of  suffer- 
ing, tossed  restlessly,  murmuring  some  words,  while  her 
mother  sat  motionless,  staring  into  the  small,  cheerless  fire. 

Suddenly  Lena  burst  into  the  room,  greeting  them  both 
with  scant  courtesy,  and,  without  inquiring  after  her  sister's 
health,  threw  down  her  umbrella,  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire 
and  grumbled  that  it  gave  forth  no  warmth.  Long  ago  she 
had  returned  to  her  mother  and  confessed  that  she  had 
married  ;  but  she  seldom  visited  them  now,  because,  as  she 
had  declared  to  her  husband,  they  continually  wanted  money 
out  of  her.  Her  invalid  sister  was  always  in  need  of  some- 
thing, and  she,  now  that  she  had  left  home,  begrudged 
every  penny  she  gave  her.  It  was  a  sad  home,  that  of 
Mrs.  Loder.  She  was  a  God-fearing,  patient  woman,  who 
had  been  well  brought  up,  and  who  for  years  had  striven 
and  sacrificed  herself  for  her  children,  until  age  had  com- 
pelled her  to  relinquish  all  her  work,  save  one  set  of  cham- 
bers in  Fig  Tree  Court.  She  had  never  seen  Bertram 
Rosmead,  because  Lena  had  felt  no  inclination  to  bring  her 
husband  to  that  wretched,  single,  close-smelling  room,  but 
she  had  formed  an  opinion  that  he  must  be  an  upright 
man,  and  always  expressed  a  hope  that  her  daughter  was 
happy. 

'  No,  I'm  not  happy,'  Lena  declared,  in  answer  to  her 
mother's  usual  question. 

*  What  ? '  Mrs.  Loder  asked,  surprised.  '  Have  you 
quarrelled,  then  ? ' 

'  No,  not  exactly  quarrelled,'  her  daughter  answered. 
'  But  I've  expressed  my  opinion  pretty  straight  upon  that 
wretched  hole,  Hounslow,  and  if  he  doesn't  like  it,  well,  he 
must  lump  it.     That's  all/ 

c  It's  the  country,  and  much  healthier  there  than  here,' 
observed  her  sister,  in   a  weak   voice. 

'Shut  up,'  cried  Lena.     'You  know  nothing  about  it, 


GREY   DAYS  93 

and  there's  no  necessity  for  you  to  interfere  with  my  affairs. 
Look  after  your  own.' 

c  Lena !  Lena  !  '  her  mother  remonstrated,  c  why  do  you 
come  here  and  create  discord  when  you  know  poor  Mary  is 
so  ill?' 

c  Then  she  shouldn't  interfere,'  Lena  answered  indig- 
nantly. 

c  But  I  won't  allow  you  to  speak  like  that,'  Mrs.  Loder 
said,  sharply.  l  If  you've  had  a  quarrel  with  your  husband, 
it's  no  reason  why  you  should  come  here,  give  vent  to  your 
feelings,  and  upset  us.  Husband  and  wife  should  settle 
their  differences  themselves.' 

1  Ah  !  '  cried  Lena,  angrily,  '  I  see  I  get  no  sympathy 
here.  It's  because  I  give  you  no  money  now,  I  suppose. 
If  I  had  married  a  rich  man,  you'd  have  been  all  smiles, 
and  I  should  have  been  the  best  girl  in  the  world ;  but 
because  I'm  poor,  you  don't  want  to  see  me.' 

4  Lena  !   Lena  !  '  cried  her  mother,  reproachfully. 

But  Rosmead's  wife  snatched  up  her  umbrella,  and, 
without  further  word,  flounced  from  the  room. 

When  she  had  gone,  Mary  turned  restlessly  upon  her 
couch,  and,   sighing,  said  — 

1  Lena  always  had  a  temper ;  but  since  her  marriage,  she 
seems  to  have  become  unbearable.' 

'  Yes,  dear,'  her  mother  answered  quietly,  resuming  her 
seat  by  the  meagre  fire.  c  She's  cruel  to  speak  like  that 
after  the  years  I  have  toiled  for  you  all  since  your  poor 
father's  death.  When  he  died  I  had  no  friend  to  give  me  a 
helping  hand,  and  ever  since  that  day  I  have  been  face  to 
face  with  poverty.' 

'  Well,  never  mind,  mother,'  Mary  said  cheerfully. 
c  Don't  think  of  it.  It's  useless  for  you  to  worry  yourself 
for  nothing.' 

But  Mrs.  Loder  only  sighed. 


94  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

Meanwhile  Lena  made  her  way  through  Fetter  Lane 
into  Holborn,  and  thence  to  Staple  Inn,  that  small,  old- 
world  square  of  quaint,  ancient  houses,  approached  by  a 
narrow  court  off  the  busy  main  thoroughfare.  It  has  not 
the  high  repute  of  the  Temple,  Lincoln  or  Gray's  Inn,  its 
residents  being  a  motley  assortment  of  journalists,  book- 
makers, outside  stockbrokers  and  bankers'  clerks,  but  it  is 
nevertheless  a  quiet  and  convenient  spot,  preferable  to  the 
gloom  of  Bloomsbury  —  or  Gloomsbury,  as  that  faded 
quarter  might  justly  be  termed. 

Up  the  unlighted  wooden  stairway  of  one  of  the  oldest 
of  these  houses  Lena  made  her  way,  with  a  certaintv  of 
tread  which  betrayed  that  she  was  no  stranger  to  the  place, 
and  stopping  before  a  door  on  the  top  floor,  which  bore 
in  white  letters  the  name  l  Sir  Douglas  Vizard,'  rang  the 
bell. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  door  banged  to,  a  shuffling 
of  feet,  and  then  she  was  suddenlv  confronted  by  a  short, 
stout  man  of  about  sixty,  florid-faced,  with  grey  side- 
whiskers,  who  held  a  cheap  paraffin  lamp  in  his  hand. 

c  Well,  who  are  you  staring  at,  silly  ?  '  Lena  asked,  laugh- 
ing at  his  look  of  inquiry . 

1  Lena  !  '  he  cried  gaily  next  instant.  '  Come  in,  come 
in.      I  really  didn't  recognise  you  in  the  dark.' 

And  shuffling  in  his  slippers,  he  led  her  into  the  small, 
old-fashioned,  musty  sitting-room,  where  she  threw  herself 
into  an  easv  chair  with  the  air  of  one  perfectly  at  home, 
and  leaning  back,  laughed  merrily. 

4  Wherever  have  vou  been  ?  '  he  asked,  sinking  into  a 
seat  opposite  her.      c  You've  not  called  for  months.' 

'  I've  been  away  in  the  country,'  she  answered  vaguely, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

c  Alone  ?  '  he  inquired,  with  a  meaning  leer.  He  was 
a  gross,  showy,  over-dressed  man,  who  wore  large  rings  on 


GREY   DAYS  95 

his  fat  hands,  a  heavy  gold  albert,  and  a  great  single  paste 
diamond  in  his  shirt-front.  This  external  exhibition  of 
wealth  impressed  people  in  the  City,  for  if  the  truth  be 
told,  the  baronet  was  not  very  wealthv,  and  allowed  his 
name  to  appear  as  director  of  certain  companies  and 
pocketed  fees  ranging  from  the  nimble  half-sovereign  to  the 
crisp  and  respectable  five-pound  note.  His  life  had  been 
full  of  ups  and  downs  ever  since  he  had  inherited  the 
empty  title,  but  out  of  the  latter  he  had  managed  to  make 
a  very  comfortable  income  by  imposing  on  the  credulity 
of  others,  allowing  no  corner  to  his  conscience,  and  acting 
with  a  boldness  that  was  incredible.  On  his  own  account 
he  had  started  one  company  which  existed  wholly  in  his 
imagination,  but  it  brought  him  in  sufficient  to  keep  him  in 
comparative  luxury,  to  pay  his  subscription  at  the  Constitu- 
tional Club,  and  otherwise  to  (  keep  him  on  his  legs.' 

Among  the  class  to  which  Lena  belonged  Sir  Douglas 
was  well  known,  for  he  had  been  for  years  a  patron  of  the 
theatres  and  music-halls,  and  had  a  fatherly  habit  of 
addressing  all  the  girls  as  '  my  dear.'  To  Lena  he  was 
evidently  no  stranger,  for  after  she  had  been  chatting  with 
him  for  some  time,  she  rose,  and,  without  invitation,  took 
a  bottle  of  port  and  two  glasses  from  the  cupboard,  carried 
them  to  the  table,  and  observing  that  he  was  not  so  cour- 
teous towards  her  as  he  used  to  be,  exclaimed  — 

c  'Ere's  luck,'  and  tossed  off  her  wine  at  a  single 
gulp. 

1  Then  you're  not  at  the  theatre  now  —  eh  ?  '  Vizard 
said,  in  a  wheezy  voice,  with  his  stereotvped  smile,  glancing 
at  her  wrist,  and  noticing  that  she  still  wore  the  cheap  gold 
bangle  he  had  given  her  two  years  ago. 

c  Oh,  yes,  I  am,'  she  answered.  c  I've  been  living  in  the 
country  and  coming  to  town  every  night.' 

c  Quite    the    leading    lady,'    he    observed,    smiling.       ■  I 


96  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

haven't  been  to  the   Adelphi   for   an  age.      I  can't  stand 
melodrama  at  any   price.' 

1  That's  the  reason  why  I've  come  to  look  you  up.  We 
all  thought  you  were  dead,  and  I've  got  the  fair  hump  of 
things  in  general.' 

'Then  you'll  find  I'm  very  much  alive,'  he  answered, 
jumping  up  nimbly  and  crossing  to  her.  '  Come  give  me 
a  kiss,  like  a  good  little  girl,'  and  he  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  bent  his  gross,  red  face  to  hers. 

His  touch  brought  back  to  her  in  an  instant  the  recollec- 
tion of  Rosmead,  of  her  husband's  calm  patience,  and  of 
how  deeply   she  had  wronged  him. 

1  No,'  she  cried  with  sudden  resolve,  springing  to  her 
feet.     '  No.     Don't  touch  me.' 

1  Why  ? '  he  demanded  in  amused  surprise. 

'Because  —  because  I  am  married.' 

He  regarded  her  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  burst  out 
laughing. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    MILLSTONE 

A  few  weeks  after  Lena's  open  expressions  of  disgust  at 
her  surroundings,  Bertram  one  morning  received  a  letter 
which  caused  him  boundless  delight.  It  was  from  the 
O'Donovan,  the  lazy,  laughing  Teddv,  whom  everybody 
at  Julien's  had  known  as  c  The  Bouchon,'  upon  whose 
mouth  had  always  been  the  ready  question  in  the  slang  of 
the  Quartier  Latin,  '  En  secbez-vous  un  f  '  l  and  whose 
love  had  met  with  such  a  sudden,  tragic,  and  mysterious 
end.  He  had,  it  appeared,  seen  some  anonymous  French 
verses  in  Temple  Bar,  and  recognising  them  as  having 
been  written  by  his  friend  when  they  were  living  together, 
had  communicated  with  the  editor,  and  the  latter  had  for- 
warded  his   note. 

It  was  an  urgent  request  that  Bertram  should  come  and 
see  him,  therefore  that  afternoon  he  took  train  to  Kensing- 
ton, where  he  found  his  old  friend  installed  in  a  handsome 
studio  in  Hornton  Street,  close  to  the  High  Street  railway 
station.  l  The  Grey  House,'  as  it  was  called,  was  a 
strangelv-built  Gothic  residence  of  grey  stone,  presenting 
a  rather  severe,  even  ecclesiastical  appearance,  but  inside  it 
was  furnished  richly  with  artistic  taste,  a  dining-room  in 
old  oak,  a  pretty  drawing-room  with  fine  Turkey  carpet 
and  rosewood  furniture  and  white  enamelled  cosy-corners, 
while  upstairs,  occupying  the  whole  of  the  area  of  the  house, 

1  '  Prenez-cvous  un  bock  ?  ' 
7 


98  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

was  a  great,  high-roofed  studio,  with  huge  windows,  grand 
piano,  Eastern  rugs,  stands  of  armour,  and  a  Moorish 
alcove  draped  with  silken  embroideries,  forming  a  canopy 
supported  by  Arab  spears. 

As  the  neat  maid-servant  ushered  him  in,  he  looked 
around  the  place  in  amazement.  Truly,  it  was  a  luxurious 
place,  and  Teddv  must  have  made  enormous  strides  to  be 
possessor  of  such  an   art  collection. 

c  What,  ho,  old  chap  !  '  shouted  the  O'Donovan,  gaily, 
emerging  from  behind  the  easel,  and  giving  his  old  friend 
a  hearty  hand-grip.  '  So  at  last  I've  found  you.  Manton, 
bring  some  whiskey  and  soda,  and  I'm  out  if  anybody  calls,' 
he  added,  addressing  the  maid  in  the  same  breath. 

The  girl  withdrew,  and  the  two  men  walked  together 
across  to  the  fire. 

c  Well,  and  how's  the  world  been  using  you  ?  '  the  artist 
inquired,  tossing  his  pallet  and  brushes  aside.  The  model, 
a  girl,  whose  neck  and  shoulders  he  had  been  painting,  had 
slipped  away  into  the  tiny  dressing-room  at  the  end,  and 
the  two   men   were  alone. 

'  Oh  !  I  suppose  I  mustn't  complain,'  Rosmead  answered, 
smiling  rather  bitterly. 

c  Not  too  well  —  eh  ?  '  his  keen-eyed  friend  observed. 
1  So  you've  taken  to  literature  after  your  walking  tour  to 
the  devil.     Why  did  you  leave   Paris  like  that  ?  ' 

'  You  needn't  ask.      You  know  the  reason.' 

cYes,'  O'Donovan  sighed.  '  She  was  a  heartless  little 
cat  to  treat  you  so.  And  I  never  thought  it  of  Jean  — 
never.' 

'  No,  no,'  cried  Rosmead,  quickly.  '  Don't  talk  of  it 
now.      It's  all  passed,  and  I  have  ceased  to  remember.' 

c  Ceased  to  remember  !  '  the  artist  repeated  slowly.  '  I 
wish  I,  too,  could  forget,  old  fellow,'  and  he  sighed. 

1  Marry,  and  then  vou'll  forget,'  the  journalist  suggested. 


THE   MILLSTONE  99 

c  What,  are  you  married  ?  '  Teddy  asked,  surprised. 

c  Yes,'  he  answered.  c  Why  not  ?  Is  it  such  an  ex- 
traordinary occurrence  for  a  man  to  marry  ? ' 

'  Married,  and  taken  to  literature,'  observed  the  artist. 

4  No,'  his  friend  said,  correcting  him.  c  I've  taken  to 
journalism,  and  hold  a  rather  low-down  position  —  with  my 
usual  ill-luck.      I'm  editor  of  the  Hounslow  Standard.' 

lA  local  rag  —  I  beg  its  pardon  —  one  of  those  which 
report  mothers'  meetings  and  big  gooseberries  —  eh  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  laughed  the  friend  of  his  student  days.  c  When 
I  returned  to  London  I  tried  to  get  into  literature  by  becom- 
ing a  journalist.  I  took  my  first  step,  and  have  stuck  there 
ever  since.' 

c  And  you  are  married.     Who's  your  wife  ?' 

'She's  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre  —  got  a  little  part  there.' 

6  What's  her  name  ?     Is  it  on  the  bills  ? ' 

'  No,'  he  answered  hesitatingly.  '  Her  name  is  Lena 
Loder.' 

c  Lena  Loder,'  he  gasped,  glaring  in  amazement  for  a 
moment  at  his  friend ;  then,  as  if  recovering  himself,  he 
turned  to  the  little  Turkish  coffee-stool  upon  which  the  maid 
had  placed  the  tray,  saying:  c  Have  a  whiskey,  old  chap,' 
and  busied  himself  in  mixing  it.  Rosmead  had  not  noticed 
the  artist's  sudden  change  of  manner  when  he  had  mentioned 
his  marriage,  and  when  they  had  drunk  to  each  other,  the 
O'Donovan  again  returned  to  the  subject  of  literature. 

CI  remember  in  the  old  days,'  he  said,  lit  used  to  be 
your  ambition  to  write  fiction.      Have  you  done  any  ? ' 

c  Lots,  but  I  haven't  yet  succeeded,'  the  other  answered. 
1  What  has  been  published  has  appeared  in  unknown  papers, 
and  I'm  still  without  name  ;  therefore,  without  fortune. 
But  you  —  how  long  have  you  been  in  London  ? ' 

c  Nearly  two  years  now,'  Teddy  replied.  c  I  worked 
pretty   hard  in    Florence  and    Rome,  then   came   here,  and 


ioo  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

found  that  my  Academy  pictures  had  already  made  me 
known.  I  do  a  good  many  portraits  of  well-known  people, 
so  I'm  compelled  to  work  in  this  museum.  The  fashion- 
able women  who  come  here  have  an  absurd  idea  that  an 
artist's  studio  should  be  a  sort  of  combined  curiosity-shop 
and  furniture  show-room,  so  I  screwed  the  guv'nor  up  to 
shelling  out  for  the  place,  and  here  it  is.  What  do  you 
think  of  it  ? ' 

c  Beautiful,'  the  journalist  declared,  in  admiration,  com- 
paring the  meagre  sitting-room  in  which  he  worked  with 
this  fine  apartment,  where  nothing  was  inharmonious, 
nothino-  wanting-.  '  It's  an  ideal  studio  ;  the  sort  of  room 
one  reads  about  in  the  pages  of  "  Ouida." 

4  Yes,'  its  owner  sighed.  c  For  me  it's  far  too  elegant ; 
I  much  prefer  a  plain  room,  where  I  can  wear  slippers  and 
an  old  coat ;  a  studio  like  ours  on  the  Quai.  By  Jove  ! 
those  were  happy  days,  Rosmead,  old  chap  —  ah!  happy 
before  that  wretched  tragedy  which  wrecked   my  life.' 

'  You've  discovered  nothing,  I  suppose  ? '  inquired  the 
journalist,  in  a  tone  of  sympathy. 

'  Absolutely  nothing,'  he  answered  bitterly.  '  The  police 
could  find  no  clue  whatever  to  her  identity.  Who  she  was 
will  now  ever  remain  a  mystery.' 

Cut  off  from  artistic  life  as  Rosmead  had  been  by  burial 
in  that  dreary  suburban  town,  he  knew  nothing  of  his 
friend's  recent  successes,  of  the  notable  picture  of  a  well- 
known  societv  woman  in  last  year's  Academy,  which  had 
given  him  such  fame  as  a  portrait-painter,  or  that  he  was 
now  one  of  the  lions  of  the  season.  He  glanced  at  the 
mantelshelf  and  saw,  stuck  in  the  frame  of  the  mirror,  cards 
for  all  sorts  of  societv  junketings ;  but  it  was  not  until  he 
had  made  a  tour  of  the  studio  and  inspected  some  of  his 
friend's  recent  works  that  he  realised  how  great  was  the 
stride  he  had  made. 


THE   MILLSTONE  ici 

Upon  one  easel  was  a  life-sized  portrait,  three-quarter 
length,  of  a  thin-featured,  rather  ugly,  but  nevertheless 
striking  woman,  in  black.  All  the  character  in  the  face 
had  been  brought  out  in  lifelike  detail,  and  although  the 
dress  was  unrelieved  by  colour,  the  portrait  showed  genius 
that  was  unmistakable.  In  reply  to  Bertram's  question, 
his  friend  mentioned  the  lady's  name,  a  name  which  he 
knew  by  repute  as  that  of  the  foremost  among  women 
novelists.  c  And  this,'  continued  O'Donovan,  turning  an 
unfinished  canvas  which  had  its  face  to  the  wall.  c  This 
is  Lady  Elvaston,  wife  of  Sir  Charles  Elvaston,  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Evening  Telegraph.  That's  the  kind  of  paper 
you  ought  to  be  on,'  he  added. 

'  Ah  !  I  only  wish  I  could  get  on  it ;  I  should  then  be 
able  to  make  progress.  As  it  is,  however,  I'm  handicapped 
by  being  hidden  away,  with  a  millstone  around  my  neck.' 

c  Your  wife  ? '   inquired  Teddy,  looking  sharply  at  him. 

c  My  wife  !  Why  do  you  ask  ? '  Rosmead  exclaimed 
quickly,  with  affected  indifference. 

c  Because  —  well,  because  you  seem  to  regret  your  mar- 
riage, my  dear  old  fellow,  that's  all,'  his  friend  answered 
straightforwardly.  '  Now,  in  the  old  days  we  never  had 
any  secrets,  you  and  I  ;  therefore  there's  no  reason  why  we 
should  have  any  now.  Tell  me  plainly  what  troubles 
you.' 

Rosmead  hesitated.  He  had  not  come  there  to  whine 
over  his  own  personal  troubles.  He  had  never  done  so  in 
Paris,  and  he  had  not  intended  to  do  so  in  London.  But 
he  could  trust  Teddy,  for  was  he  not  his  very  best  friend  ? 
had  he  not  had  hundreds  of  opportunities  for  testing  the 
firmness  of  his  friendship  and  loyalty,  and  never  once  had 
he  found  him  wanting  ? 

So  again  he  cast  himself  into  his  chair,  and  related  briefly 
how  he  had  struggled  and  striven,  how   he   had    laboured 


102  SCRJBES   AND   PHARISEES 

night  and  day  in  his  desperate  endeavour  to  gain  a  foothold 
in  literature,  and  how  all  his  efforts  had  been  unavailing. 
He  had  merely  been  sowing  the  wind.  Without  hiding  a 
single  fact  from  the  merry-eyed  Irishman  who  sat  before 
him,  grave-faced  in  attentive  attitude,  he  explained  how 
he  had  first  met  Lena,  and  how,  in  order  to  save  her  from 
ruin,  he  had  married  her. 

4 1  did  not  love  her,'  he  cried  emphatically.  c  I  cannot 
—  I  shall  never  love  her.  Already  she's  tired  of  me,  tired 
of  the  life,  which  she  declares  is  dull  and  joyless.  She 
casts  into  my  face  all  my  failures,  reproaching  me  for 
being  such  a  fool  as  to  trv  to  win  fame.  For  that  I  hate 
her  —  yet  she  is  my  wife,  and,  as  such,  it  is  my  duty  to  do 
my  best  for  her.' 

Teddy  sighed.  He  saw  that  his  friend  was  terribly  in 
earnest.  It  was  this  wife  of  his  who  was  hampering  him. 
He  was  certainly  not  the  same  happy,  light-hearted  Bertram 
that  he  had  known  in  the  dear  old  Ouartier,  but,  grave- 
faced,  heavy-eyed,  and  somewhat  pale,  he  had  now  the 
countenance  of  a  desperate  man. 

'Your  marriage  seems,  my  dear  old  chap,  to  have  been 
a  mistake  —  a  terrible  mistake,'  he  said  decisively.  (  Any- 
one can  see  from  what  you  say  that  she  doesn't  love  you. 
She  merely  married  you  out  of  caprice  —  merely  in  order 
to  gain  her  own  ends.  At  the  moment  when  she  accepted 
your  offer  she  was  in  need  of  a  protector,  and  has  just  used 
you  as  her  tool.  But  why  worry  yourself  over  such  a 
woman  ?  '  he  asked.  '  She  has  not  your  interests  at  heart 
as  the  wife  of  a  professional  man  should  have,  and  she's 
utterly   worthless.' 

1  Do  you  think  so  ? '   the  unhappv  journalist  asked. 

c  I  know  it,'  the  artist  assured  him  emphatically,  quali- 
fying his  assertion  next  second  by  adding  :  '  At  least,  what 
you've  told  me  proves  that  she  must  be.' 


THE   MILLSTONE  103 

1  Then  what  do  you  advise  ? '  the  other  asked,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

1  The  reply  is  obvious.  If  you  allow  her  to  constantly 
worry  you,  to  upset  your  work  by  continually  grumbling, 
then  your  chance  of  success  will  slip  from  you  for  ever. 
You're  not  the  first  man  by  hundreds  who's  been  ruined  by 
a  vain,  unsympathetic  wife.  You  can  never  make  a  name 
while  you  have  a  woman  of  her  character  ever  at  your 
elbow.' 

Rosmead  pondered. 

1  You  suggest  that  I  ought  to  leave  her  —  eh  ? '  he 
asked  at  last. 

O'Donovan  raised  his  eyebrows  with  expressive  gesture, 
and  answered  — 

*  It's  the  only  course,  if  you  really  mean  to  get  on.  You 
are  quite  right  in  saying  that  you  have  a  millstone  around 
your  neck.  If  you're  not  careful,  the  dead  weight  will 
sink  you.  She  can't  love  you,  or  it  would  be  impossible 
for  her  to  act  as  she  does  —  utterly  impossible.  Her  free- 
dom would  no  doubt  please  her,  and  you'd  then  be  able  to 
turn  out  better  work,  for  your  mind  would  be  clear.' 

c  But  my  conscience  wouldn't,'  answered  Rosmead. 
c  That  means  that  I  must  abandon  her.  No,'  he  added 
huskily,  c  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself  by  marrying,  but  it 
shall  never,  never  be  flung  into  my  face  that  I  cast  off"  my 
wife  in  order  to  gain  my  freedom  and  to  achieve  fame.' 

c  Then  you  love  her  ?  '  the  artist  observed,  with  knit 
brows. 

c  Love  her  !  '  he  echoed.  '  I  hate  and  detest  the  sight 
of  her.' 

1  Then  why  not  part  ? ' 

c  No,  old  chap,  for  two  reasons  that's  impossible,'  he 
replied.  l  First,  my  slender  salary  is  insufficient  to  keep  us 
both  apart,  and  secondly  I  could  never  bring  myself  to  cast 


104  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

her  off  merely  because  she  stands  in  the  way  of  my  personal 
advancement.  She's  my  wife,  and,  as  such,  I  must  bear 
the    burden.' 

The  artist  looked  full  into  his  friend's  face,  sighed  deeply, 
but  no  word  escaped  him.  Of  all  his  friends  Bertram 
Rosmead,  the  man  without  talent  and  without  money,  had 
been  the  closest.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  him  crushed 
and   disheartened  in  this   manner. 

c  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,'  he  cried,  suddenly  jumping 
up,  as  a  happy  thought  occurred  to  him.  c  You  must  get 
on  a  better  paper  than  that  suburban  sheet  of  yours,  that's 
agreed.  Now,  Lady  Elvaston  is  coming  to  give  me  another 
sitting  to-morrow.  I  know  her  very  well  —  dine  there, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  —  so  I'll  ask  her  whether  her  husband 
couldn't  put  vou  on  his  staff.' 

1  On  the  Evening  Telegraph  !  '  cried  Rosmead,  joyously, 
his  eyes  bright  with  enthusiasm.  c  Ah  !  if  he  only  would. 
It's  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  eyening  papers,  and  certainly 
holds  highest  rank.  But  I  fear  they  take  only  the  most 
experienced  men/ 

c  Never  admit  ignorance  of  anything,  my  dear  boy.  I 
never  do,'  declared  Teddv,  airily,  as  was  his  wont.  c  I'll 
have  a  talk  with  her  to-morrow.  We  are  very  good  friends, 
and  we'll  see  if  we  can't  work  the  oracle  for  you.  Then 
some  day  when  you  write  art  criticisms,  you  may  perhaps 
be  able  to  give  me  a  leg  up — see?  Hurrah  for  County 
Cork  !  ' 

And  Rosmead  joined  in  his  friend's  merry  laughter,  even 
though  he  had  but  little  hope  that  such  a  course  as  was 
proposed  would   be  of  any   avail. 

His  misgivings  in  that  direction,  however,  had  no  foun- 
dation. True  to  his  promise,  the  fashionable  voung  painter 
put  the  matter  before  Lady  Elvaston,  who  was  well-known 
in  London   as  an   enthusiastic   lion-hunter,  with  the  result 


THE    MILLSTONE  105 

that  Bertram  Rosmead,  whose  sole  experience  of  the  Press 
had  been  obtained  upon  that  obscure,  ill-printed  little  sheet, 
found  himself  one  morning  attached  to  the  reporting  staff 
of  one  of  London's  most  respectable,  most  prominent,  and 
most  Conservative  newspapers. 

Unlike  the  local  reporter,  whose  ambition  it  is  to  turn 
out  as  much  c  copv  '  as  possible,  the  reporter  on  a  London 
daily   strives   to   condense    his    information    into    the    very 

J  j 

smallest  possible  compass.  The  Evening  Telegraph  was 
not  a  large  sheet,  therefore  the  news  had  to  be  given  in 
paragraphs,  and  so  small  was  the  amount  of  work  done  by 
the  reporting  staff,  and  so  great  was  the  grumbling  among 
its  members  when  any  little  extra  duty  had  to  be  performed, 
that  the  sub-editors,  of  whom  there  were  three,  declared 
that  their  colleagues  were  l  paid  to  look  miserable.' 

Bertram  Rosmead  quickly  discovered  that,  while  his 
salary  was  doubled,  his  duties  were  mere  child's  play  in 
comparison  with  those  at  Hounslow.  He  had  taken  a  set 
of  chambers  in  Dane's  Inn,  that  chilling,  dismal  little  paved 
court  off  the  Strand,  at  the  back  of  St.  Clement's  Danes 
church,  a  change  which  caused  Lena  the  most  profound 
satisfaction.  The  rooms,  being  situated  at  the  back,  were 
gloomy  and  prison-like,  with  ground-glass  windows  to  hide 
the  squalid  outlook,  and  constituted  as  frowsy  an  abode  as 
even  the  most  dry-as-dust  barrister  could  have  wished  for. 
It  consisted  solely  of  a  small  entrance-hall,  a  living-room, 
and  one  bedroom,  and  there  being  no  room  for  a  servant, 
Lena  declared  her  intention  to  manage  by  herself  rather 
than  live  in  any  part  less  central  or  further  removed  from 
that  thoroughfare  bv  her  beloved,  the  Strand.  Therefore 
they  were  compelled  to  cook,  eat,  and  live  in  that  one  close 
back  room,  the  faded  carpet  of  which  was  worn  into  holes, 
with  shabby,  dirt-grimed  furniture  whence  the  stuffing 
escaped,  the  two  book-cases  at  either  end  being  filled  with 


io6  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

musty  leather-covered  tomes  of  the  law  which  had  been 
fino-ered  and  pored  over  by  generations  of  students  who  had 
previously  tenanted  the  place. 

Lena,  of  course,  quickly  made  the  dulness  of  her  home 
an  excuse  for  going  out,  a  fact  which  her  husband  did  not 
fail  to  notice.  She  was  very  often  absent  when  he  returned 
home  —  visiting  her  mother,  or  married  sister,  she  said. 
And  he  believed  her. 


CHAPTER   X 

A    WORLD    OF    l  TAPE  '    AND    '  FLIMSY  ' 

Work   on    the    Evening    Telegraph    did    not   at   first   admit 
of    much    time    for   literary    pursuits.      From    the    day    on 
which  he  entered  upon  his  duties  he  became  much  attached 
to  the  chief  sub-editor,  Mr.   Fownes,  a  dark-bearded,  easy- 
going;, good-tempered   man   of  about    forty-five,   who    had 
himself  gained  his  experience   on  the   provincial    press,  and 
had,  after  twenty  years  of  toil,  gained  that  plum  of  journal- 
ism, the  control  of  the  news  department   of  London's   best 
evening   paper.      Upon   Mr.    Fownes   rested    the    responsi- 
bility of  everything.     The  editor  was  a   mere  figure-head, 
a   man   of  very  meagre   literary  attainment,  who,  however, 
bearing  the  hall-mark  of  Balliol,  was  accepted  as  a  genius  ; 
while  the  leader-writers  were  so   many  pawns,  who   consid- 
ered themselves  too  superior  even  to  parley  with   the  news 
department.      Seated  in   his   chair,  with   his   two   assistants 
on  either  side  and  his  row  of  speaking  tubes   at   his  elbow, 
Mr.    Fownes    selected    what    news    should    appear  in    the 
paper,  gave  his  orders  to  the  various  departments   in   some- 
thing of  the  manner  of  the  captain  of  a  ship,  for  at  a   word 
from  him  the  contents-bill  changed  as    if  by  magic,  or  the 
ponderous,  roaring  machines  below  poured  forth  their  tons 
of  copies  of  the  journal  per   hour,   automatically  gummed, 
folded,  and  counted  into  quires. 

In  that  sub-editor's   room   there   was   eternal   bustle   and 
turmoil.      Half-a-dozen    telegraph    instruments    clicked    on 


108  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

monotonously  night  and  day,  Sundays  and  weekdays,  regis- 
tering on  the  c  tape '  the  news  of  the  world  ;  the  private 
wire  to  the  office  in  the  City  ticked  out  each  hour,  trans- 
mitting the  latest  from  the  Stock  Exchange  ;  hosts  of  men 
of  all  kinds,  the  hangers-on  of  journalism,  entered  every 
moment  with  some  unimportant  item  of  news  which  they 
dropped  into  a  large  basket  \  streams  of  telegraph  messen- 
gers were  constantly  coming  and  going  ;  men  would  open 
the  door,  shout  some  cabalistic  word,  and  close  it  again 
without  waiting  for  response ;  and  reporters  would  enter, 
fling  their  single  sheet  of  manuscript  into  the  basket,  curse 
the  weather,  and  remark  that  it  was  time  to  return  home. 
It  was  here  where  the  real  work  of  the  paper  was  per- 
formed, in  that  dingy  room,  with  its  high-up  windows,  its 
paper-strewn  floor,  its  panelled  walls,  wherein  lurked  many 
insects  of  a  variety  not  unknown  to  the  body  of  mankind, 
and  where  hung  a  coat  so  encrusted  with  dust  that  its 
original  colour  was  indistinguishable.  Has  anyone  ever 
seen  a  sub-editor's  room  without  a  frayed  and  dusty  coat 
hanging  upon  a  nail  ?  Legend  had  it  that  this  particular 
coat  belonged  to  an  assistant  sub-editor  who  one  day  mys- 
teriously disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  behind  except  the 
week's  salary  due  to  him  and  his  office  coat.  He  was 
believed  to  have  been  associated  with  the  Nihilists,  because 
he  had  on  one  occasion  spent  three  days  in  St.  Petersburg. 

Throughout  the  day  this  sub-editorial  trinity  worked  on, 
examining  the  reports  as  they  came  in,  preparing  some  for 
the  printers  and  rejecting  others,  eating  their  meals  without 
moving  from  their  chairs,  and  smoking  briar-pipes  until  in 
the  afternoon  the  air  became  so  thick  with  smoke  and  the 
combined  odours  of  the  three  meals  that  only  those  with 
strong  stomachs  could  venture  into  the  den.  The  chief 
sub-editor's  chair  was  irreverently  termed  l  the  perch '  by 
all  the  staff,  because  he   sat  on   a   sort  of  raised   dais,  the 


A   WORLD   OF  ■  TAPE '  AND  *  FLIMSY  '    109 

whim  of  some  previous  sub-editor,  who  had  had  it  placed 
there  because  the  machinery  beneath  should  not  jar  him. 
The  duties  in  that  office  had  probably  upset  his  nerves. 

In  all  that  busy  hive  of  journalism  however,  the  reporting 
department  was  the  most  interesting  galaxy  of  talent.  It 
was  perhaps  unique.  The  chief  reporter,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  lounge  about  in  a  tall  hat  during  the  morning  and 
attend  the  House  of  Commons  in  the  afternoon,  was  a  thin, 
rather  sallow-faced  Scotchman,  who  would  have  '  taken  a 
note '  of  the  appearance  of  the  Archangel  as  calmly  as  he 
sat  in  his  box  in  the  Gallery  and  scribbled  his  hieroglyphics 
at  '  question-time.'  He  was  a  clever  journalist,  who  had 
cultivated  the  art  of  being  grimly  sarcastic  at  the  sub-editor's 
expense,  whereupon  the  latter  would,  in  revenge,  cast  his 
next  contribution  to  the  day's  news  into  the  huge  waste- 
paper  basket,  or  give  it  to  the  junior  reporter  to  re-write 
c  without  so  much  gas.' 

The  second  reporter  was  a  person  of  much  distinction. 
He  was  an  elegant  young  gentleman,  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance and  superior  manners,  whose  chief  labour  seemed 
to  consist  in  training  his  long,  fair  moustache,  and  who  occa- 
sionally attended  a  meeting  with  the  air  of  conferring  a 
favour  upon  the  sub-editors  by  doing  so.  He  had  earned 
the  appellation  of  '  The  Worm  '  —  how  no  one  knew ; 
perhaps  because  he  was  once  rebellious,  and  had  c  turned.' 
Sometimes,  in  excess  of  zeal,  he  would  write  a  l  bit  of 
description  '  of  some  civic  function,  but  this  was  gen- 
erallv  noteworthy  by  reason  of  atrocious  spelling,  big  words 
wrongly  applied,  and  flowery  aphorisms  which  the  sub- 
editors promptly  struck  out,  the  long-suffering  trinity  being 
afterwards  roundly  abused  for  their  well-meaning  efforts  to 
prevent  the  journal  being  held  up  to  derision. 

Next  in  rank  was  a  tall,  thin,  fair-bearded  young  man, 
with  hollow  cheeks,  who  wore  a  rusty  hat  of  the  stove-pipe 


no  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

shape,  and  an  overcoat  in  the  warmest  weather.  He  went 
through  the  world  with  a  wounded,  grief-stricken  expres- 
sion, which  seldom,  if  ever,  relaxed.  He  had  some  secret 
sorrow,  it  was  believed,  and  was  never  known  to  smile, 
unless  it  was  on  one  celebrated  occasion  when  the  chief 
reporter,  in  leaving  a  meeting  hurriedly  in  unwonted  en- 
thusiasm to  l  catch  an  edition,'  trod  upon  the  new  silk  hat 
of  the  junior  reporter.  This  glossy  headgear  was  the  first 
of  its  kind  the  youth  had  ever  had,  and  he  brought  it  back 
to  the  office  under  his  arm. 

It  was  a  strangely-conducted  organ,  this  —  the  gravest 
and  greatest  of  London's  evening  journals.  No  one  had 
ever  been  known  to  be  discharged  from  its  staff.  The 
junior  reporter  already  referred  to,  a  youth  who  had  served 
his  apprenticeship  to  that  profession,  was  an  interesting 
specimen  of  its  product,  besides  being  a  common  object  of 
the  Strand.  During  his  apprenticeship  he  had  mainly  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  his  sharp  passages  of  arms  with  the 
head-printer,  a  very  stout,  grey-haired  man,  who  had  once 
been  a  sea-going  skipper,  whose  motto  was  '  Time  and  this 
blanked  Circular  wait  for  no  man,'  and  who  sent  the  paper 
to  press  six  times  a  day  with  the  regularity  of  the  synchro- 
nised clock  over  his  head.  This  youth  smoked  cigarettes 
furiously,  and,  during  the  winter,  used  to  be  deputed  by  the 
reporting  staff  to  stay  in  the  office  and  keep  up  a  good  fire 
in  their  room.  He  was,  in  fact,  stoker  to  the  establishment. 
So  enthusiastically  eager  had  he  been  to  learn  his  profession 
that,  on  the  day  he  completed  his  six-years'  term,  the  man- 
ager screwed  up  courage  to  tell  him  that  he  must  consider 
his  engagement  at  an  end.  Knowing,  however,  that  such 
a  course  was  entirely  an  innovation,  this  imperturbable  youth 
still  remained,  and  for  the  past  three  years  had  continued  to 
draw  his  salary  regularly,  and  even  successfully  demand  an 
increase. 


A  WORLD    OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY1    in 

His  opinion  of  the  staff  was  amusing.  He  declared  that 
thev  were  c  a  scratch  lot,'  and  that  between  them  thev 
were  not  equal  to  the  task  of  composing  an  advertisement 
of  quack  medicine.  It  was  true  that  the  training  on  the 
Evening  Telegraph  was  decidedly  unique.  Taught  to  write 
almost  next  to  nothing,  the  reporters,  if  the  weather  did 
not  happen  to  be  pleasant,  quickly  fell  into  the  commend- 
able habit  of  strolling  along  the  Strand  as  far  as  Short's, 
or  Romano's,  spending  half-an-hour  there,  and  returning 
to  the  office,  stating  that  the  meeting  they  had  attended 
was  not  worth  reporting.  On  the  other  hand,  had  the 
last  trump  sounded,  the  industrious  trio  of  sub-editors 
would  have  brought  out  an  t  Extra  Special,'  containing 
c  Feeling  in  the  Citv,'  and  calmly  awaited  the  arrival  of 
c  Latest  Details  '  on  one  or  other  of  the  c  tapes.' 

Among  such  surroundings  Bertram  Rosmead  quickly 
became  miserable.  The  whole  reporting  staff  at  once 
sneered  at  his  inability  to  write  shorthand  swiftly,  and 
poked  fun  at  his  reports  when  they  appeared  in  the  paper. 
The  elegant  young;  man  with  the  moustache,  who  consid- 
ered himself  a  critic  of  literature,  music,  the  drama,  and 
everything  else  beside,  having  once  written  an  appreciative 
notice  of  some  Christmas  cards,  was  particularly  sarcastic 
at  Rosmead's  expense,  for  it  being  whispered  about  the 
office  that  he  wrote  verse  and  fiction,  he  was  at  once 
dubbed  c  our  special  novelist.'  But  this  young  fair-mous- 
tached  critic  was  essentially  a  Hn-de-siecle  journalist,  fault- 
lessly dressed,  who  studied  whole  phrases  from  Ruskin 
and  Carlvle,  and  slung  them  bodily  into  his  conversation 
or  his  notices  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show,  the  Dog  Show 
at  the  Palace,  the  Military  Tournament,  or  any  of  those 
other  hardy  annuals.  In  his  own  abilities  he  was  perfectly 
confident.  Whenever  he  worked,  it  was  for  the  purpose  of 
exhibiting  his  great  talent  and   profound   superior   know- 


ii2  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

ledge.  And  if  the  argus-eyed  Fownes  dared  to  alter  a 
single  word,  this  superior  journalist  would  enter  the  room 
and  roundly  abuse  him.  Mr.  Fownes,  worthy  man,  had 
controlled  the  destinies  of  an  influential  paper  when  his 
youthful  critic  was  sucking  a  coral  consoler  in  his  cradle, 
and  usually  treated  such  caustic  remarks  bv  walking  from 
the  room  and  having  an  interview  with  the  foreman-printer. 

So  well  regulated  was  that  office  that  if  a  reporter  inter- 
viewed anybody,  or  endeavoured  to  obtain  an  item  of  fresh 
news  by  unwonted  enterprise,  the  others,  consumed  by 
jealousy,  immediately  howled  him  down.  There  were 
weeks  when  the  rebellious  reporting  staff  refused  to  speak 
with  the  sub-editors,  or  when  the  burly  foreman-printer, 
after  consigning  the  whole  staff  to  asphyxiation  by  sulphur, 
worked  on  just  as  he  liked,  and  sent  the  paper  to  press 
without  any  fresh  news.  Once  when  this  occurred  and 
he  was  remonstrated  with,  he  gruffly  replied  — 

c  What's  the  good  of  giving  the  readers  too  much  news  ? 
It  spoils  'em  for  the  future.  If  they  can't  find  sufficient 
in  our  sheet,  let  'em  spend  an  extra  ha'penny  and  buy  an 
Echo.  They  pay  their  money  and  take  their  choice.  What 
more  do  thev  want  ?  ' 

Before  a  fortnight  had  elapsed,  Rosmead's  position  had 
become  almost  untenable  among  all  these  conflicting  in- 
terests and  petty  jealousies.  From  the  junior  reporter, 
who  sat  by  a  fire  huge  enough  to  roast  a  sheep,  with  his 
legs  resting  on  a  broken  chair,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  reading 
a  stray  volume  of  Dickens,  to  the  thin-faced  Scot,  who 
took  a  morning  snooze  in  the  chair  with  one  arm,  the  only 
easy  one  the  reporters'  room  possessed,  they  all  conspired 
to  bring  himself  and  his  work  into  derision.  Alone  among 
them  all,  the  patient,  clear-headed,  keen-witted  Fownes, 
who  had  read  and  admired  his  verses  in  the  magazines, 
remained  his  friend. 


A   WORLD    OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY'    113 

Almost  Rosmead's  first  engagement  of  importance  was 
the  investigation  of  a  threatened  serious  strike  of  gas- 
workers  out  at  Beckton,  in  the  far  east  of  London,  a  labour 
movement  which  would  leave  half  the  metropolis  in  dark- 
ness, and  so  well  did  he  perform  the  task  that  his  article 
was  quoted  by  the  Times  and  several  other  papers.  For 
this  he  received  commendation  from  Sir  Charles  Elvaston, 
a  fact  which  at  once  aroused  the  bitterest  hatred  and 
jealousy  of  all  his  colleagues.  Of  such  is  the  world  of 
journalism.  But  treating  their  sneers  and  sarcasm  with 
contempt,  and  gravely  plodding  on,  content  in  the  know- 
ledge that  his  chief,  Mr.  Fownes,  held  him  in  respect,  he 
continued  to  perform  his  duties.  Many  times  portions 
of  his  reports  or  interviews  had  the  distinction  of  being 
quoted  by  the  morning  papers,  much,  of  course,  to  the 
chagrin  of  those  interesting  and  talented  gentlemen  who 
were  l  paid  to  look  miserable.' 

With  his  evenings  free,  Bertram  continued  his  literary 
struggles  at  home.  Before  leaving  Hounslow  he  had  com- 
menced a  novel,  a  strange,  weird  story  of  man's  betrayal 
and  woman's  love,  which  he  had  named  c  Silent  Fetters,' 
and  some  three  months  after  joining  the  Evening  Telegraph, 
there  appeared  a  paragraph  in  the  papers,  saying  that  this 
novel  was  shortly  to  be  issued  by  a  publishing  firm,  one  of 
the  best-known  in  London.  Even  then  Lena  was  not 
enthusiastic.  She  called  him  a  fool  for  his  pains,  for  stick- 
ing for  ever  at  his  desk,  and  laughed  derisively  at  the  sum 
he  had  received  for  the  entire  rights  of  the  book.  It  was 
twenty  pounds.  She  called  it  paltry,  and  was  annoyed 
because  it  went  to  liquidate  debts  he  had  contracted  at 
Hounslow.  She  wanted  new  dresses  with  it,  but  he  was 
obdurate,  and  paid  the  bills. 

The  book  duly  appeared,  a  two-shilling  novel  of  that 
class  popular  a  few  years  ago  as  the  c  yellow-back,'  with  a 

8 


ii4  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

striking  picture  cover,  bearing  his  name  in  large  red  letters. 
With  what  pride  he  placed  a  copy  before  him  and  surveyed 
it ;  with  what  pride  he  saw  it  displayed  on  the  bookstalls 
at  Charing  Cross  and  the  other  termini  ;  with  what  pride 
he  was  importuned  by  the  bookstall  clerk  at  St.  Pancras  to 
buy  his  own  book  !  The  feeling  of  satisfaction  at  seeing 
one's  first  book  on  sale  can  only  be  fully  appreciated  by  the 
man  to  whom  it  is  the  crowning  result  of  years  and  years 
of  toil  and  tribulation,  of  disappointment  and  despair. 

But  the  Atheneeum  dismissed  it  in  half-a-dozen  lines  of 
hostile  criticism,  and  the  reporters  of  the  Evening  Telegraph 
were  jubilant.  So  carried  away  were  they  by  enthusiastic 
satisfaction,  that  they  cut  out  the  notice  and  gummed  it  to 
the  wall. 

The  crisis  of  their  antagonism  was,  however,  reached 
when,  one  dav,  on  account  of  one  of  the  sub-editors  leav- 
ing  to  direct  the  news  department  of  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
Rosmead  was  appointed  to  his  vacant  chair.  They  then 
refused  to  allow  their  '  copy  '  to  be  cut  about  and  improved 
upon  by  their  late  colleague,  whom  they  declared  was 
an  arrant  outsider,  and  very  soon  matters  came  to  such 
a  crisis,  that  Mr.  Fownes  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  take 
counsel  with  Sir  Charles,  with  the  result  that  the  reporting 
staff  received  a  snub  which  lingered  long  in  the  memory  of 
its  dissatisfied  members. 

During  all  this  time,  however,  Rosmead  continued  to 
work  at  home,  slaving  ever  beneath  his  lamp.  His  first 
book  had  been  a  qualified  success.  With  the  exception  of 
the  Atheneeum,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  papers  which  review 
superficially  and  make  it  a  rule  to  publish  a  smart  and 
abusive  paragraph  at  a  new  author's  expense,  the  notices 
of  the  book  had,  on  the  whole,  been  appreciative.  It  was 
by  no  means  a  great  work.  The  plot,  they  said,  was  good, 
but  the  story  lacked  characterisation,  and  its  denouement  was 


A   WORLD    OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY*    115 

not  sufficiently  striking.  A  pirate  publisher  had  reprinted 
it  in  America,  and  in  several  New  York  journals  he  found 
fairly  good  reviews  of  it. 

At  last  he  had  become  a  novelist. 

Twenty  pounds  for  eight  months'  work  is  not  a  high  rate 
of  remuneration,  and  he  plainly  saw  that,  before  he  could 
become  a  professional  author,  he  must  earn  considerably 
more  than  that.  Therefore  he  set  to  work,  disregarding 
Lena's  incessant  grumbling,  and  in  his  gloomy  sitting-room 
wrote  every  night,  and  through  the  whole  day  on  Sundays. 
He  had  commenced  another  book,  in  which  he  hoped  to 
remedy  the  defects  pointed  out  by  the  reviewers,  a  book 
which  he  intended  should  place  him  on  a  footing  with  pop- 
ular writers,  and  towards  that  end  he  strove,  buoyed  by  a 
new-born  enthusiasm  which  his  sulking,  pouting  wife  did 
not    share. 

The  c  Harbour  Lights  '  had  come  to  an  end,  and  Bertram 
had  caused  her  to  relinquish  her  engagement.  There  was 
no  real  reason  why  she  should  be  absent  every  evening,  now 
that  he  was  earning  sufficient  to  keep  them  in  the  necessa- 
ries of  life,  therefore,  much  against  her  wish,  he  forced  her 
to  leave  the  Adelphi.  No  sooner  had  he  done  this  than  he 
regretted  it. 

1  Now  that  you  won't  allow  me  to  go  on  the  stage  any 
more,'  she  said  one  evening,  l  you'll  be  able  to  take  me 
sometimes  to  the  music-halls.  You  know  how  fond  I  am 
of  them.  There's  lots  of  tickets  at  your  office  —  Mr. 
Fownes  told  me  so.' 

He  hesitated.  Evenings  at  music-halls,  those  insane 
entertainments  which  he  so  abominated,  meant  loss  of 
valuable  time,  loss,  perhaps,  of  his  chance  of  making  a 
name. 

'  But  I  can't  work  at  my  book   and  go  out  too,'  he  said. 

'  Oh  !   of  course,'  she  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  with  anger 


u6  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

'You  always  place  your  writing  before  my  enjoyment. 
You  begrudge  me  any  little  pleasure,  and  would  like  to  see 
me  as  staid  as  an  old  woman  of  fifty.' 

'  No,'  he  answered  quietly,  '  I  begrudge  you  nothing, 
Lena.' 

c  But  are  you  such  an  idiot  as  to  suppose  that  I  can  stick 
for  ever  in  these  gloomy  old  chambers,  and  never  go  out  ? 
You've  got  your  work — such  as  it  is  —  to  interest  you. 
I've  got   nothing.' 

c  You  can  surely  read  a  little,'  he  said,  reflecting  that  for 
months  he  had  never  seen  her  with  any  book  or  news- 
paper in  her  hand,  except  the  Referee. 

'  Read  be  hanged,'  she  answered  petulantly.  c  I'm  not 
a  bookworm,  and  never  shall  be.  You've  chosen  to  make 
me  give  up  the  only  bit  of  pleasure  in  life  I  had,  therefore 
you  must  take  me  about  of  an  evening.' 

c  But  can't  you  see,  dear,  that  my  advancement  is  to 
your  own  interest  ? ?  he  pointed  out.  c  Surely  you  would 
like  to  be  able  to  have  a  nice  house  in  the  country  and  live 
happily  ?  ' 

'  I've  had  enough  of  the  country,'  she  answered  promptly. 
'  You'll  never  get  me  to  live  in  it  again.  The  Strand's 
good  enough   for  me.' 

He  sighed.  She  had  not  a  grain  of  sympathy  for  him, 
even  though  she  had  seen  him  toiling  night  after  night, 
seeking  that  will-o'-the-wisp,  success.  She  had  expressed 
no  satisfaction  when  his  first  book  had  been  published  ;  she 
had  never  read  it,  and  laughed  when  she  confessed  to  her 
friends  her  utter  ignorance  of  its  contents.  Selfish  and 
narrow-minded,  she  had  not  profited  by  it,  therefore  it  did 
not  interest  her  in  the  least  degree. 

1  Surely  a  comfortable  little  house  in  the  country,  where 
we  could  live  happily  without  my  absence  daily  at  the 
office,  would  be   preferable  to  these  two  rooms,'  he  said. 


A   WORLD    OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY'    117 

'  I  am  only  doing  my  best  to  get  on,  Lena,  as  every  other 
man  should  do  who  has  a   wife.' 

'  And  you  earn  twenty  pounds  after  eight  months'  work,' 
she  laughed  contemptuously.  '  My  pay  was  small  enough, 
but  I  earned  more  than  that.' 

The  fact  was,  alas  !  too  true.  A  supernumerary  at  a 
theatre  was  paid  at  a  higher  rate  than  fiction.  How  could 
he  ever  hope  to  make  a  living  as  a  novelist  ? 

'  I  am  but  beginning,'  he  observed,  rather  sadly,  stifling 
the  sigh  which  rose  within  him.  'Think  of  some  men 
earning  thousands  a  vear  at  fiction.' 

'You'll  never  be  one  of  them,'  she  replied  coldlv,  with 
a  sneer.  '  All  of  them  have  influential  friends,  and  have 
greater  talent  than  vou  have.  What's  the  use  of  trying  to 
accomplish   things  that   are  impossible.' 

1  Read  the  reviews  of  my  book,'  he  answered,  taking 
from  his  table  a  number  of  sheets  of  paper  pinned  together, 
whereon  he  had  gummed  the  cuttings,  and  handing  them 
to  her. 

'  I  don't  want  to  bother  mv  head  over  your  wretched 
old  reviews,'  she  cried,  casting  them  from  her.  '  Such 
twaddle  onlv  makes  vou  vain,  and  causes  you  to  fancy  you 
can  write.  But  you'll  never  make  a  mark,  for  you  ain't 
got  it  in  you.  If  vou  had,  your  stories  would  have  been 
taken  long  ago.' 

'  Your  words  are  certainly  extremely  inspiring,'  he 
observed,  with   some  asperity. 

' 1  only  tell  you  the  truth,'  she  answered.  '  I'm  your 
wife,  and  you  ought  to  take  mv  advice.' 

'  And  give  up  all  thought  of  writing  fiction  —  eh  : 
Relinquish  all  hope  of  being  able  to  earn  a  living  without 
daily  toil  at  a  newspaper  office  ?      Never  !  ' 

'No,'  she  cried  fiercely.  'You  care  nothing  for  me  — 
absolutely    nothing.       You   sit   here    scribbling   away   night 


n8  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

after  night,  while  I  —  I  can  mope  or  amuse  myself  as  best 
I  can.      You've  even  taken  my  profession  from  me.' 

c  Profession  !  '  he  exclaimed,  with  a  bitter  smile.  c  Is  the 
mere  walking;  on  to  a  stage   and   striking  an   attitude  to  be 

o  o  o 

elevated  to  a  profession? ' 

c  It's  as  honourable  as  yours,'  she  protested.  c  If  you 
had  not  taken  me  away  from  it,  I  should  have  had  a  speak- 
ing part  in  the  new  piece  —  I'm  sure  I  should.' 

1  The  theatre  is  no  place  for  an  honest,  respectable  wife,' 
he  answered. 

'Don't  you  think  I  can  take  care  of  myself?'  she 
retorted.     l  Trust  me  ;   I  wasn't  born  yesterday.' 

c  I  have  always  trusted  you,  Lena,'  he  replied  calmly. 

'  Then  why  do  you  doubt  me  now  ?  '  she  inquired, 
standing  before  him  defiantly,  with  knit  brows  and  a  hard- 
ness about  her  mouth. 

'  I  have  expressed  no  doubt.  You  have  left  the  theatre 
because  I  wished  it  —  that's  all.' 

1  And  you'll  take  me  to  the  music-hall  of  an  evening 
because  I  wish  it,'  she  said  decisively.  '  You've  wasted 
time  enough  over  your  miserable   scribbling.' 

4  If  I  spend  my  time  at  those  inane  variety  entertain- 
ments, my  chance  will  slip  by,'  he  said.  '  Cannot  you 
remain  in  patience  a  little  longer,  until  I  have  finished 
this  book.' 

'  Another  six  months,'  she  observed,  grumbling.  c  No, 
I  don't  mean  to  bury  myself,  if  you  do ;  so  that's 
straight.' 

'  It  isn't  necessary  for  you  to  bury  yourself,  as  you  choose 
to  term  it,'  he  responded.  c  You  go  out  in  the  daytime  to 
see  your  friends,  and  I  don't  complain.  I  do  not  expect 
you  to  remain  indoors  alone  always.  I  merely  ask  you  to 
allow  me  to  do  my  work  at  night.' 

4  I'm  content  enough  to  stay  at  home   in  the  daytime,  if 


A  WORLD   OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY'    119 

I   go  out   of  an    evening,'   she   said.     c  I    must    go   out    at 
night.      I've  always  been  used  to  it,  and  I  mean  to  go.' 
1  Then  you  are  determined  to  ruin  all  my  prospects  ? ' 
1  Prospects  !  '  she  echoed.     c  Pretty  prospects  they  are.' 
He  was  silent.     The  prophetic  words  Teddy  had  uttered 
on  that  afternoon  in  his  studio  recurred  to  him.      His  friend 
had   declared  that  this  selfish,  unsympathetic  woman  would 
ruin  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  his  misgivings  were  likely  to 
be    fulfilled.      He   had   manfully  borne   up   against  her  ill- 
temper,  her   eternal  grumbling,  her  bitter  opposition  to  all 
his  well-meaning  projects,  her  discouraging  apathy  towards 
all  his  exertions,  because  he  considered  it  dishonourable  to 
leave  her  after  having  contracted  marriage.      He  had  borne 
his    sorrows   as   only  a  calm,  philosophical  man   can  bear 
them  ;  he  had  fought  a  valiant  fight  with  his  conscience, 
and  still  held  mastery  over  himself. 

Teddy  O'Donovan  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  his  chambers, 
but  Lena  hated  him.  On  several  occasions  lately  he  had 
invited  her  husband  to  dine  at  the  Saturday  house-dinner 
at  the  Savage  Club,  but  Lena  had  always  shown  such  un- 
willingness to  allow  him  any  little  recreation  in  which  she 
herself  could  not  participate,  that  he  had  been  compelled 
to  decline.  Teddy  pointed  out  that  at  the  Savage  were 
men  who  could  be  of  use  to  him  ;  but  Lena  cared  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing,  for  her  husband's  future  so  long  as  she 
had  sufficient  money  for  her  cheap  finery.  In  everything 
where  Bertram  was  concerned  his  wife's  inordinate  selfish- 
ness asserted  itself,  until  she  lived  for  herself  alone,  caring 
for  no  one,  heedless  of  all  except  her  own  pleasure  and  per- 
sonal appearance,  the  latter  consisting  of  powdering  her 
face  until  the  mixture  of  glycerine  and  chalk  might  almost 
have  been  scraped  from  her  nose  and  cheeks. 

Whenever  Teddy  visited   at    Danes'    Inn    he  could   not 
fail  to  recognise  the  dismal  state  of  affairs,  and  often  sighed 


120  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

to  witness  how  cruelly  unsympathetic  was  Rosmead's  wife. 
In  the  old  days,  his  fellow-student  had  been  a  merry,  rol- 
licking fellow,  with  buoyant  heart  and  laughing  face.  And 
now  Bertram  had  become  strangely  silent,  morose,  and 
heavv-eved.  It  was  this  ignorant,  worthless,  doll-faced 
1  walking  lady '  whom  he  had  so  foolishly  made  his  wife, 
who  was  wrecking  his  future,  sapping  his  life.  Teddy 
hated  and  detested  her. 

Bertram  looked  up  at  her  after  a  long  silence. 

c  Well,'  she  asked.  c  Aren't  you  going  to  take  me  out 
to-night  ? ' 

1  No,'  he  answered,  c  not  to-night.  To-morrow.  I've 
got   some  verses  to  write  to-night.' 

c  Oh,  confound  your  wretched  French  poetry.     Nobody 

reads  it,'  she  said,  with  an  angry  sneer.     c  Then  I   shall  go 

out  bv  myself.' 
j      j 

c  Very  well,'  he  answered.  c  But  you  know  it  is  against 
my  wish  that  you  should  go  out  at  night  alone.' 

c  Well,  if  you  won't  come  with  me,  I  must  go  alone.  I 
mean  to  go  out  at  night  and  see  a  bit  of  life  —  and  even 
you  shan't   stop  me.' 

Then,  without  another  word,  she  went  into  the  adjoining 
room,  put  on  her  things,  and  left  without  wishing  him 
good-bye.  When  the  door  had  banged,  he  sighed,  passing 
his  hand  wearily  across  his  darkened  brow,  then  sank  into 
the  chair  at  his  table,  and,  after  much  painful  effort,  wrote 
a  short  but  beautiful  poem,  of  which  the  following  was  the 
first  verse  :  — 

Rien  rfest  doux  que  l'amour,  aucun  bien  n'est  si  cher  j 
Pres  de  lui  le  miel  meme  a  la  bouche  est  amer. 
Celle  qui  n'aime  point  Venus  sur  toutes  choses, 
Elle  ne  connait  pas  quelles  fleurs  sont  les  roses. 

He  sat  writing  until  the  clock  of  St.  Clement  Danes, 
haying     chimed     c  Home,     Sweet     Home,'     slowly     and 


A  WORLD    OF  'TAPE'  AND  'FLIMSY*    121 

solemnly  struck  the  midnight  hour.  This  aroused  him. 
The  roar  of  traffic  in  the  Strand,  the  beating  of  London's 
heart,  had  died  away.  He  flung  down  his  pen  in  surprise 
that  his  wife  had  not  returned.  A  thought  occurred  to  him 
that  she  was  probably  waiting  at  her  mother's  for  him  to 
fetch  her,  so  after  a  few  minutes,  he  read  through  what  he 
had  written,  blew  out  his  lamp,  and  went  out. 

He  rang  the  bell  at  the  grimy  old  house  in  Gough 
Square,  and  after  a  long  time  the  summons  was  answered 
by  Mrs.  Loder,  aghast  at  seeing  her  son-in-law.  Lena  had 
not  been  there  that  evening,  she  said,  and  he  turned  heavily 
awav,  retracing  his  steps  to  his  gloomv  chambers.  He  in- 
quired of  the  old  commissionaire  who  acted  as  night- 
watchman,  and  was  informed  that  she  had  not  entered  the 
Inn. 

Then  he  climbed  the  dirty  stairs  to  his  rooms,  and  waited 
in  sorrow  and  patience. 

Soon  after  one  o'clock  he  heard  a  latchkey  thrust  into  the 
door,  and  his  wife  entered. 

Her  hat  was  slightly  awrv,  her  hair  dishevelled,  her  face 
flushed,  her  veil  torn.  She  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
doorway  of  the  dingv  old  room,  looking  at  him,  laughing 
stupidlv,  and   swaying  slightly. 

Instantly  the  horrible  truth  dawned  upon  him,  paralysing 
his  senses.  He  stood  in  silence,  regarding  her  with  ineffa- 
ble disgust.     She  was  drunk. 

From  her  glove  there  slipped  a  piece  of  green  paper, 
which  fluttered  to  the  ground. 

Her  husband  picked  it  up,  and  found  it  was  the  coun- 
terfoil of  an  admission  ticket  to  that  gilded  and  car- 
peted promenade  of  Aspasia,  the  grand  circle  at  the 
Empire. 


CHAPTER    XI 

c  TO    LOVE    AND    TO    CHERISH  ' 

4  So  you  have  returned  ?  '  Rosmead  exclaimed  severely, 
regarding  her  with  ineffable  loathing.  c  You've  been  to 
the  Empire  alone,  and  come  back  to  me  in  this  disgraceful 
condition  ?  ' 

c  What  condition  ?  '  she  asked  defiantly,  advancing  into 
the  room  with  uneven  steps,  and  sinking  into  a  chair. 

c  The  condition  you  are  now  in  —  one  of  absolute  intoxi- 
cation,' he  retorted  bitterly. 

cYou  —  you  say  I'm  drunk,'  his  wife  cried,  her  eyes 
aflame.  c  You're  a  cruel  beast  !  You  take  away  all 
pleasure  in  life,  and  then  abuse  me.  I'm  not  drunk.  It's 
a  lie.' 

He  turned  from  her. 

c  Faugh  ! '  he  ejaculated.  i  Don't  seek  to  hide  your  vile, 
insufferable  habits  like  that.  I  surely  know  when  a  person 
is  drunk  or  not.' 

c  I  tell  you  I'm  not  drunk,'  she  shouted,  stamping  her 
foot. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  nauseated,  answering  :  c  A 
man  intoxicated  is  bad  enough,  but  a  drunken  woman  is  the 
most  wretched,  debasing  spectacle  on  God's  earth.' 

c  I'm  a  debasing  spectacle  —  am  I  ? '  and  she  laughed 
stupidly. 

c  I'm  disgusted,'  he  declared  furiously.  c  For  this  there's 
no  extenuating  circumstance.  I  told  you  I'd  take  you 
out  to-morrow  night ;  yet   you  put  on  your  smart  clothes, 


'TO   LOVE   AND   TO    CHERISH'  123 

and  go  alone  to  a  place  where  even  I  myself  wouldn't  take 
you.' 

1  You're  far  too  prudish,'  she  observed  huskily.  c  You're 
getting  an  old  man   before  you're  a  young  one.' 

'Your  action  to-night,'  he  said,  standing  before  her, 
'  shows  me  plainly  that  vou  have  neither  self-respect  nor 
respect  for  me,  vour  husband.  Such  a  spectacle  as  you 
present  is  absolutely  disgraceful.  You  have  no  soul  above 
comic  operas   and   music-halls.' 

1  Go  on,'  she  said,  laughing.  '  I'm  all  attention.  You 
don't  care  for  entertainments  yourself,  and  you're  jealous 
that  I  should  enjov   mvself.' 

1  Enjov  vourself !  '  he  echoed.  'Is  going  to  a  music- 
hall,  mixing  with  a  crowd  of  the  fastest  women  in  London, 
and  getting  intoxicated,  your  idea  of  enjoyment  ?  If  so, 
your  tastes  must  be  very  debased  ones.' 

c  Mv  tastes  are  as  cultivated  as  yours,'  she  protested, 
with  faulty  articulation,  leaning  back  in  the  armchair  and 
blinking  at  him.  (  Because  I  happened  to  meet  one  of 
the  girls  at  the  theatre,  and  she  stood  me  drink,  vou  say 
I'm  drunk.  Why,  you  drink  more  in  a  day  than  I  do  in  a 
month.' 

This  was  a  barefaced  untruth,  for  he  drank  nothing  be- 
vond  his  glass  of  bitter  at  his  meals.  But  when  his  wife 
was  excited,  all  reason  left  her,  and  knowing  this,  he  did 
not   attempt   to  differ. 

'  I'm  surprised,  Lena,'  he  exclaimed  —  l  utterly  disgusted 
at  vour  conduct.  Surelv  this  is  not  the  manner  in  which  a 
respectable  woman  should  conduct  herself!  I've  done  my 
best,  and  have  tried  to  elevate  vou  ;  but  you  seem  only  to 
sink  lower  and  lower,  until  now  you've  lost  ever)7  atom  of 
self-respect.' 

c  Elevate  me,'  she  cried.  '  You  !  You're  a  prettv  one 
to  talk  of  elevating  anybody,  a  stony-faced  cur  like  you  ! ' 


124  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

1  You  are  complimentary,  indeed,'  he  observed,  his  face 
growing  paler  in  anger. 

c  And  so  are  you,  when  you  tell  me  I'm  drunk.' 

c  I  wish  to  make  no  further  comment  upon  that  point 
to-night,'  he  replied  harshly.  '  I  merely  say  that  it  is  disre- 
spectful towards  me,  your  husband,  to  go  drinking  in  low 
bars  at  midnight  with  this  girl,  whoever  she  is.' 

'  Do  you  want  me  to  go  the  whole  evening  without  a  drink 
when  I'm  thirsty,  merely  because  you  don't  like  me  to  have 
one  ?     You'll  want  me  to  go  to  chapel  next.' 

'  A  woman  who  had  love  or  respect  for  her  husband 
would  neither  act  nor  talk  in  this  manner,'  he  retorted  bit- 
terly, his  grave,  serious  face  darkening  as  he  strode  up  and 
down  the  shabby  room.  '  If  your  mother  knew,  she  would 
sympathise  with   me.' 

'  No,'  his  wife  sneered,  '  you're  gravely  mistaken  there. 
She  regrets  that  I  should  have  married  such  a  miserable 
hound  as  you  —  a  man  who  loves  his  books  and  his 
wretched  scribbling  better  than  his  wife.' 

She  spoke  the  truth.  Yes  ;  he  loved  his  work  better 
than  he  loved  her,  because  she  had  never  shown  the  slight- 
est interest  in  his  projects,  nor  an  atom  of  sympathy  towards 
him.  This  discovery  that  she  drank  filled  him  with  the 
most  intense  loathing.  He  hated  all  persons  who  had  no 
control  over  themselves  in  the  matter  of  drinking,  and  the 
publican  was  his  pet  abomination,  whom  he  was  never  tired 
of  denouncing.  He  was  by  no  means  narrow-minded,  but 
in  journalism  he  saw  about  him  so  many  men  and  women 
ruined  by  drink,  that  spirituous  liquors  caused  him  loathing. 
In  Paris  his  set  drank  heavilv  enough,  but  their  thin  red 
wine  at  four  sous  never  intoxicated  like  the  sulphurous, 
poisonous  liquids  which  London  publicans  are  allowed  to 
sell  under  the  names  of  whiskey,  brandy,  and  gin.  Half 
the  whiskev  sold  in  London  public-houses  is  a  spirit  which 


'TO   LOVE   AND   TO    CHERISH'  125 

has  a  potency  to  send  men  and  women  temporarily  insane. 
To  its  agency  half  the  crimes  of  the  metropolis  are  due,  and 
to  its  agency  more  than  half  the  poverty  and  wretchedness. 
In  many  a  London  bar  a  man  or  woman  can  get  mad  drunk 
for  fourpence. 

Even  as  Rosmead  passed,  he  could  smell  the  nauseating 
odour  of  his  wife's  breath. 

1  I  loved  you,'  he  burst  forth  bitterly,  c  I  loved  you 
until,  by  your  ill-temper,  selfishness,  and  utter  disregard 
for  my  welfare,  vou  crushed  every  spark  of  affection  or 
respect  from  my  soul.  And  now  you  have  taken  to  drink 
and  music-halls.' 

I  It's  entirely  your  fault,'  she  said,  in  a  reproachful,  lan- 
guid voice,  her  eyes  half  closed.  '  If  vou  had  stirred  your- 
self about  a  bit  and  taken  me  out,  I  should  never  have 
wanted  to  have  gone  about  bv  myself.    I  told  vou  so  long  ago.' 

I I  have  nothing  of  which  to  reproach  myself,'  he  an- 
swered gravely.  '  1  have  laboured  in  vain  in  my  endeav- 
ours to  make  vou  view  life  in  a  proper  manner,  but  you 
are  daily  sinking  lower  and  lower,  and  would  drag  me 
down  with  you  if  vou  could.  But  understand  me,'  he 
cried,  his  eyes  flashing  as  he  stood  before  her.  c  I  hate 
and  detest  a  woman  who  drinks,  and  if  you  continue, 
you'll  no  longer  find  a  home  with   me.' 

She  looked  at  him  unsteadily  for  a  few  seconds,  her 
shifty  eves  wide  open  in  surprise.  Then,  with  the  same 
stupid,  hideous  grin  of  intoxication,  she  answered  — 

c  Surely  you  don't  think  that  such  a  threat  troubles  me 
in  the  slightest  ?  I  shall  please  mvself  whatever  I  do. 
You've  married  me,  and  you'll  have  to  keep  me.  If  I 
want  a  drink,  I  shan't  ask  vou  whether  I  may  have  it. 
It's  your  pals  around  you  —  that  foppish  idiot  of  an  artist, 
O'Donovan,  and  the  rest  —  who  are  trying  to  separate  us. 
I  know  it.      I'm  not  blind.' 


126  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

c  No  one  is  trying  to  separate  us,'  he  said  sternly,  his 
disgust  inexpressible.  c  You  are  doing  your  best  to  create 
a  breach  between  us,  while  I  am  slaving  night  and  day  in 
order  to  earn  money  to  keep  you  in  comfort  and  respecta- 
bility. Surely  O'Donovan  is  my  friend.  If  it  were  not 
for  him,  I  should  still  have  been  at  Hounslow.' 

1  Friend  ! '  she  laughed,  hiccoughing.  '  Your  friends  are 
my  enemies.  The  mean  skunk  shall  never  enter  this  place 
again.  If  he  does,  then  I  go  out.  None  of  these  men 
you  call  your  friends  are  any  good  to  you.  They  laugh  at 
your  futile  literary  attempts  behind  your  back  —  and  well 
they  may.' 

1  It  may  be  left  to  my  own  judgment  to  choose  my 
friends,'  he  replied,  annoyed.  c  It's  useless  to  argue  with 
you  further.' 

c  Of  course  it  is,'  she  retorted.  c  Because  you  know 
that  I  speak  the  truth.  A  woman  has  always  a  keener 
instinct  than  a  man.' 

c  And  if  you  used  yours  for  my  advancement,  instead  of 
my  disgrace,  it  would  be  much  more  to  your  credit,'  he 
retorted.  l  A  woman  who  once  gives  way  to  drink  is 
damned  for  ever.' 

'  So  I'm  damned,'  she  laughed  tantalisingly.  c  Abuse 
me  a  little  more.      It  is  so  interesting  —  all  this.' 

c  To-night  at  the  Empire  there  were  several  new  turns, 
and  the  Press  were  invited.  Many  men  who  know  you 
as  my  wife  were  there.  What,  I  wonder,  is  their  opinion 
of  you  rubbing  shoulders  with  that  crowd  of  wretched, 
painted  women,  drinking  in  their  company,  for  aught  I 
know.' 

c  I  saw  one  of  your  pals  there  —  I  forget  his  name.  He 
talked  to  me  for  a  long  time,'  she  said,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty, and  repeating  her  words.  c  I  told  him  that  you  pre- 
ferred to  stay  at  home,  and  he  seemed  amused.' 


'TO   LOVE   AND   TO    CHERISH'  127 

'  Who  was  he  ?  '  Rosmead  cried  angrily.  4  Describe 
bun.' 

'You're  jealous  —  eh  ? '   she  exclaimed,  smiling. 

'No,  not  jealous,'  he  declared.  'I'm  only  grieved  that 
you  should  thus  so  far  forget  yourself  as  to  disgrace  me  in 
this  manner.  What  will  the  men  I  know  think  when  it 
is  known  that  I  allow  you  to  go  to  a  music-hall  alone, 
Lena  ? '  he  added,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  with  a  sorrowful  note 
in  it.     'You  are  driving  me  to  desperation.' 

'  You've  already  driven  me  there,'  she  answered,  with 
artificial  gaiety.  '  Well,  I'm  drunk  —  at  least,  you  say  I 
am  —  so  I'll  go  to  bed,'  and  she  sighed. 

'  Not  before  you  tell  me  with  whom  you've  been  to- 
night,' he  cried,  grasping  her  wrist.  His  face  was  blanched, 
his  brows  knit,  his  teeth  set  in  firm  determination.  '  I'm 
not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  if  you  tell  me  a  lie  —  by  Heaven  ! 
I'll  —  I'll  cast  you  out  like  a  dog.' 

'^That's  easier  said  than  done,'  she  answered,  setting 
her  shoulders  in  an  attitude  of  firm  defiance.  '  Remember, 
I'm  your  wife.' 

'  I  wish  I  could  regard  you  with  respect  as  such,'  he 
replied,  with  a  touch  of  sorrow.  '  But  after  to-night,  after 
this  disgraceful  exhibition  of  your  passion  for  low  perform- 
ances and  drink,  I  can  only  look  upon  you  and  loathe  you 
as  an  encumbrance.  Tell  me,'  his  grip,  trembling  with 
anger,  tightening  on  her  wrists.  '  With  whom  did  you  go 
to  the  Empire  to-night  ?  ' 

'  I  decline  to  satisfy  you,'  she  responded.  '  I  told  you  I 
should  go,  and  I  went.     That's  sufficient.' 

'  I  demand  to  know  who  was  with  you,'  he  said,  bend- 
ing down  closer  to  her,  a  fierce  look  in  his  angry  eyes. 
The  thought  that  she  had  thus  disgraced  him  before  his 
fellow  journalists  had  made  his  blood  rise  within  him. 
They  would  sneer  at  him  as  a  fool  for  allowing  her  to  go 


128  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

there  alone,  exposed  to  the  insults  of  that  crowd  of  after- 
dinner  loungers.  To-morrow  half  Fleet  Street  would  know 
about  it,  for  in  no  circle  does  gossip  travel  more  quickly 
than  among  pressmen. 

1 1  decline  to  tell  you.' 

1  You  shall,'  he  cried,  with  set  teeth.  *  You  hear  me  ! 
You  shall.' 

1  I  shan't,'  and  with  a  sudden  twist  of  her  hand,  she 
wrenched  herself  free,  and  rose  unsteadily  to  her 
feet. 

Again  he  grasped  her  determinedly. 

c  You  hurt  me,'  she  gasped.  c  You're  a  cowardly  brute  ! 
I'll  tell  everybody  to-morrow  how  badly  you  treat  me  — 
see  if  I  don't,'  and  she  burst  into  drunken  tears. 

'And  to-morrow  I'll  see  your  mother,  and  ask  her  to 
talk  to  you.' 

'You  don't  think  I  care  any  more  for  my  mother  than 
for  vou  —  do  vou  ? '  she  retorted.  c  Go  to  her,  and  see 
what  sort  of  reception  you'll  get.' 

1  I  shall  go  to  her.  She  certainlv  will  not  encourage 
you  in   such  disgraceful   conduct.' 

1  Oh,  go  to  her,  and  be  hanged,'  Lena  answered,  her 
face  flushed,  her  eyebrows  working  convulsively,  and  her 
gaze  unsteadv.  l  I'm  tired.  I  don't  care  about  being  up 
all  night,  if  vou  do.' 

1  Who  was  with  you  at  the  Empire  ? ' 

1  Nobodv  vou  know.      A  girl  at  the  theatre.' 

1  That's  a  lie,'  he  cried,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes. 
'If  she  was  one  of  your  theatre  friends,  she  would  be  at 
work  all  the   evening.' 

1  She's  left  the  theatre,'  Lena  answered  briefly,  in  a  voice 
which  plainlv  betraved  her  hopeless  state  of  intoxication. 

1  And  vou  met  her  at  the  Empire  ? ' 

1  Of  course  I  did.' 


'TO   LOVE   AND   TO    CHERISH'  129 

A  paroxysm  of  anger  seized  him,  as  the  truth  crossed 
his  mind. 

1  Then  you  are  so  debased  that  you  actually  cannot 
recognise  the  disgrace  of  being  seen  in  company  of  such  a 
woman.  No  respectable  woman  would  go  there  alone. 
Every  admission  you  make  adds  to  my  disgust.  You've 
been  drinking  in  company  of  such  a  low  woman  as  that !  ' 
He  released  her  hand,  and  flung  it  from  him,  saying  —  c  Go 
to  bed.  A  woman  who  has  lost  her  self-respect  so  entirely 
as  you  have  is  no  longer  worthy  the  position,  or  even 
name,  of  wife.' 

'Your  abuse  don't  hurt  me.  I  abominate  and  detest 
your  mean,  miserable  ways,  and  your  ugly  face,  always  as 
grave  as  a  monk's.  You  don't  know  how  to  treat  a  woman 
as  a  gentleman  should.  You  think  yourself  a  gentleman, 
but  you're  an  egotistical  cad.  I  hate  you  !  '  she  screamed 
in  her  drunken  passion  —  c  I  hate  you  !  ' 

1  Go  to  bed,'  he  said  firmly,  pointing  to  the  door. 
1  Sleep  off  your  beastly  drunkenness,  and  then,  when  you 
are  sober,  we'll  resume  this  discussion.' 

1  You  can't  answer.  You  know  what  I  say  is  the  truth, 
miserable,  melancholy  hound  that  you  are.' 

1  Go.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  '  he  shouted,  springing  towards 
her,  his  hands  clenched. 

She  saw  how  desperate  he  was,  and  in  that  moment 
fear  of  him  seized  her.  Next  instant,  however,  she  gave 
vent  to  a  hollow  laugh,  meant  to  be  derisive,  but  hideous  in 
its  artificiality,  took  her  cape  from  the  chair,  and  tossing 
her  head  with  an  expression  of  utter  contempt,  staggered 
from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    BOOM 

Sub-editorial  duties  on  the  Evening  Telegraph  were 
distracting,  but  the  hours  were  short.  Rosmead  com- 
menced work  at  half-past  seven  in  the  morning,  and  left 
at  two,  the  bulk  of  the  day's  work  being  over  by  that  hour. 
It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  office  was  a 
sinecure,  for  the  piles  of  telegrams  and  'flimsy'  which  he 
waded  through  with  a  keen  eye  for  errors  in  grammar, 
exaggerations  of  the  truth,  or  uninteresting  (  padding  '  were 
such  as  would  astonish  anyone  save  the  sub-editor,  whose 
mind  in  that  direction  has  been  reduced  to  something  of  a 
machine.  But  Rosmead's  work  terminating  early,  he  had 
the  afternoon  and  evening  in  which  to  continue  his  literary 
work. 

The  discovery  of  his  wife's  fondness  for  drink  had  in- 
creased his  anxiety  tenfold,  but,  with  his  generous  nature, 
he  had  forgiven  her,  on  condition  that  such  an  event  should 
not  again  occur.  A  few  weeks  later  he  received  his 
first  commission  in  fiction.  The  editor  of  Clippings,  a 
popular  weekly  paper,  having  read  his  novel,  wrote,  ask- 
ing him  to  call.  He  did  so,  and  when  he  left,  he  carried 
in  his  pocket  an  agreement  whereby  he  was  to  write  a 
sensational  serial  story  of  sixty  thousand  words,  and  for  it 
receive  the  sum  of  thirty  pounds,  to  be  paid  in  weekly 
instalments  as  the  story  appeared. 

In  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight,  he  returned  to  Danes' 
Inn,  climbing  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  and  bursting 


THE   BOOM  131 

into  the  room,  waved   the  paper    above  his  head  joyfully, 
crying  — 

1  At  last !  Lena.  They  are  beginning  to  see  that  I  can 
write.     Look  at  this  !  ' 

She  took  the  agreement  from  his  hand,  and  read  it 
unmoved. 

c  Only  thirty  pounds ! '  she  observed,  with  a  sneer. 
'  It's  paltry  enough.  Why,  other  men  would  get  three 
hundred  for  a  long  story  like  that.' 

8 1  am  but  a  beginner,  and  at  present  have  to  be  con- 
tent with  what  is  offered  me,'  he  answered.  l  I'm  not 
sufficiently  known  to  employ  an  agent  to  conduct  my  affairs 
and  bargain  for  me.' 

c  So  you're  going  to  slave  for  three  months  or  so  for 
thirty  pounds  ?  '   she  cried   petulantly. 

'  Yes,'  he  answered,  in  a  calm  voice.  c  I  have  begun 
low  down,  and  am  content  to   climb   slowly.' 

That  night  he  commenced  his  story,  a  curious  mystery 
of  London  life,  with  a  strong  love  interest.  It  opened 
with  a  tragedy,  abounded  in  dramatic  scenes,  and  into  it 
he  put  his  very  heart  and  soul.  Constant  practice  had 
taught  him  some  technique,  and  now  he  found  himself  un- 
consciously balancing  the  grave  with  the  gay,  and  working 
slowly  towards  his  climax. 

One  morning  he  awoke  to  find  himself  being  'boomed.' 
On  his  way  along  the  Strand  to  his  office,  he  chanced  to 
glance  up  at  a  hoarding,  and  what  he  saw  caused  him  to 
stand  amazed.  Upon  an  enormous  picture-poster,  repre- 
senting a  beautiful  girl  standing  behind  a  half-open  door 
with  a  revolver  in  her  hand,  was  the  title  of  his  story,  and 
below  c  By  Bertram  Rosmead,'  in  letters  two  feet  long. 
He  continued  along  the  Strand  to  investigate  other  hoard- 
ings. Yes,  upon  every  one  was  this  same  striking  poster, 
with  his  own  name  looking  so  strangely  grotesque,  glaring 


132  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

in  his  eyes.  Not  only  in  London  was  this  advertisement 
posted,  but  in  all  the  great  provincial  towns ;  therefore, 
within  a  week  or  two,  a  very  large  section  of  the  public, 
especially  readers  of  Clippings,  which  boasted  a  circulation 
of .  nearly  a  million  copies  weekly,  knew  the  name  of 
London's  newest  author. 

The  first  instalment  so  pleased  the  enterprising  editor 
that  he  wrote  him  a  polite  letter  of  thanks,  and  as  soon  as 
the  first  chapters  appeared,  the  circulation  of  the  paper 
went  up  by  leaps  and  bounds,  attributable,  of  course,  to 
the  publication  of  the  highly-interesting  serial. 

To  him  this  was  gratifying ;  but  progress  in  fiction 
meant  increased  jealousy  on  the  part  of  the  staff  of  the 
Evening  Telegraph.  They  endeavoured  to  deride  his  plot, 
to  poke  fun  at  the  poster,  as  though  he  had  designed 
it,  and  to  cast  slurs  upon  Clippings,  as  a  paper  circulating 
mainly  among  errand-boys.  Mr.  Fownes  was  still  con- 
fident in  his  assistant's  ability  ;  but  his  other  colleague  of 
the  trinity,  a  stout  man  of  quick  temper,  who  had  endeav- 
oured to  enter  literary  life  and  failed,  became,  for  some 
unaccountable  reason,  Rosmead's  bitterest  enemy.  Jealousy 
of  his  success  was,  of  course,  at  the  root  of  it ;  but  he 
rather  enjoyed  his  colleague's  sneers  than  otherwise.  In 
no  profession,  not  even  in  the  drama,  are  jealousies  so 
fierce  as  in  literature.  The  mere  journalist  is,  in  most 
cases,  fiercely  antagonistic  towards  his  literary  brother, 
because  the  latter  is  his  own  master,  and  can  work  where 
and  when  he  chooses.  To  the  pressman,  as  to  many 
others,  the  life  of  the  writer  of  fiction  is  believed  to  be  an 
ideal  existence.  In  a  few  cases,  perhaps  it  is,  but  in  the 
majority,  even  the  popular  novelist,  whose  name  is  on 
everyone's  lips,  and  whose  doings  and  sayings  are  chronicled 
in  every  newspaper  up  and  down  the  kingdom,  has  his 
skeleton  in  his  cupboard. 


THE   BOOM  133 

Of  the  staff,  the  reporters  were,  of  course,  the  most 
sarcastic ;  but  the  fever-heat  of  their  jealousy  was  reached 
when,  a  few  months  later,  the  object  of  their  sarcasm  was 
chosen  to  go  abroad  as  special  correspondent  to  witness  the 
unveiling  of  the  Holy  Coat  at  Treves,  in  Germany,  a  cere- 
monial performed  once  every  fifty  years.  The  sacred  relic 
is  kept  walled  up  in  the  church,  and  only  exposed  for 
adoration  during  five  days  twice  every  century.  For 
months  the  coming  event  had  been  commented  upon  by  the 
Continental  Press,  great  pilgrimages  had  been  arranged,  and 
many  of  the  most  distinguished  dignitaries  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  had  promised  to  attend. 

It  was,  therefore,  decided  that  the  Evening  Telegraph 
should  have  a  special  account,  and  Rosmead,  by  reason  of 
his  able  descriptive  powers,  was  commissioned  to  proceed 
there,  an  honour  which  only  the  working  journalist  can 
appreciate.  The  expenses  allowed  on  the  Evening  Tele- 
graph were  always  liberal,  and  never  questioned.  Indeed, 
on  one  occasion  a  reporter  bet  one  of  his  colleagues  a  new 
hat  that,  in  his  weekly  account  of  expenses,  he  would  put 
down  the  item,  '  Cab  up  office-stairs,  one  shilling,'  and  get 
it.  He  did  so,  and  it  was  actually  paid  without  question. 
Reporters  on  the  Evening  Telegraph,  presumed  to  be  supe- 
rior persons,  were  not  expected  to  walk  anywhere  ;  therefore 
if  they  only  strolled  as  far  as  Trafalgar  Square,  they  charged 
'bus  fare  there  and  back,  while  cabs  to  and  fro  between  the 
office  and  the  House  of  Commons  were  so  numerous  that 
the  office-boy  had  been  known  on  several  occasions  to  take 
a  hansom  and  drive  around  Hyde  Park  for  an  airing  —  at 
the  expense  of  the  journal.  Truly  it  was  a  remarkable 
journal,  this  steady-going,  lethargic,  and  highly-respectable 
evening  paper. 

The  allowance  being  so  liberal,  Rosmead  decided  to  take 
Lena,  and   one   night   they  left  Liverpool   Street,  travelling 


i34  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

via  Harwich  and  Antwerp  to  Brussels,  arriving  there  next 
morning.  Lena  was,  of  course,  delighted.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  been  on  the  Continent,  and  all  was  novel  to 
her.  As  they  were  changing  to  the  Bale  express  at  Brussels 
they  were  startled  to  hear  a  shout  behind  them,  and  a  voice 
crying  — 

c  What,  ho,  Bertram  !  Where  are  you  off  to  in  such  a 
deuce  of  a  hurry  ? ' 

Both  turned  instantly,  and  were  confronted  by  Teddy 
O'Donovan,  struggling  beneath  the  weight  of  his  heavy 
kit-bag. 

1  You  ! '  his  friend  cried.  c  I'm  off  to  Treves  to  see  this 
Holy  Coat  there's  been  such  a  talk  about.' 

c  And  I,  too,  old  chap,'  cried  Teddy,  gleefully.  '  I'm  go- 
ing  for  the    Graphic' 

Lena  glanced  at  the  artist  with  a  shadow  of  annoyance 
on  her  face,  and  greeted  him  very  coldly. 

The  train,  with  its  restaurant  car,  was  ready  to  start,  so 
they  scrambled  up  into  an  empty  compartment,  and  a  few 
moments  later  were  on  their  way  to  the  German  frontier 
by  way  of  Namur. 

Teddy  explained  that  he  had  been  in  Brussels  a  week, 
visiting  an  artist  whom  he  had  met  in  Florence,  and  while 
Rosmead  related  to  him  the  plot  and  development  of  another 
new  serial  for  Clippings,  Lena,  whose  antipathy  towards 
O'Donovan  amounted  almost  to  a  mania,  ensconced  her- 
self in  a  corner,  and  tried  to  read  some  of  the  English 
papers  she  had  bought  before  leaving  London. 

This  unexpected  meeting  gave  the  utmost  satisfaction  to 
both  men,  but  when  in  the  evening  they  alighted  at  Treves, 
they  found  themselves  in  a  dilemma.  Every  bed  in  the 
town  had  been  taken  weeks  before,  and  even  long  sheds 
had  been  erected  at  the  roadside  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  thousands  of  pilgrims  who  had  flocked  there  from   all 


THE   BOOM  135 

parts  of  France  and  Germany.  For  a  couple  of  hours  they 
drove  from  hotel  to  hotel,  endeavouring  to  find  a  resting- 
place,  but  without  success,  and  at  length,  about  nine  o'clock, 
were  compelled  to  leave  by  train  and  stay  the  night  in  that 
curious,  old-world  town,  Luxemburg. 

Early  next  morning  they  again  took  train  to  Treves,  and 
found  the  town  crowded  to  excess  with  the  unwashed,  the 
halt,  and  the  maimed,  all  of  whom  believed  that  sight  of 
the  sacred  relic  would  heal  them.  So  great,  indeed,  was 
the  multitude  around  the  cathedral  that  they  were  unable  to 
approach  anywhere  near  to  the  entrance,  and  as  the  bishop 
had  issued  an  order  that  no  tourist  or  sightseer  was  to  enter 
the  cathedral  while  the  holy  garment  was  on  show,  the 
two  correspondents  found  themselves  severely  handicapped. 
Through  the  whole  morning,  in  the  broiling  sun,  they 
struggled  and  fought  with  the  crowd  to  advance  towards 
the  entrance,  but  without  avail.  So  great  was  the  press 
that  Lena  declared  that  she  would  faint,  and  at  length,  tired 
and  exhausted,  they  were  compelled  to  relinquish  their 
efforts  and  obtain  lunch.  This  they  took  in  a  little 
restaurant  in  the  Grande  Place,  a  few  doors  from  that  old 
fifteenth-century  hotel  known  as  the  '  Rathshaus,'  and  it 
was  while  they  were  eating  their  meal,  and  Rosmead  was 
cursing  their  ill-luck,  that  the  suave  proprietor,  a  portly, 
good-humoured  German,  over- hearing,  advanced  and  began 
to  chat  with  them. 

To  him  they  related  their  woes,  when,  laughing  at  them 
heartily,  he  said  :  — 'As  it  happens,  I'm  one  of  the  honor- 
ary guardians  of  the  Coat.  The  guardianship  descends 
from  father  to  son,  and  has  been  in  my  family  for  nearly 
three  hundred  years.' 

'  Then  you  might  get  us  a  private  view  of  it  after  the 
closing  of  the  public  exhibition,'  Rosmead  suggested,  with 
journalist   instinct. 


136  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

c  I  only  want  a  single  glance  at  it,'  added  the  irrespon- 
sible Teddy,  smiling.  c  If  not,  then  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have 
to  make  some  fancy  sketches.' 

cWhat!  publish  views  of  it  from  imagination?'  Lena 
asked  in   surprise. 

1  Whv  not  ?  I've  come  out  here  to  sketch,  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  sketch  something  or  other,  if  it's  only  an  empty 
barn.' 

Meanwhile  the  genial,  fair-haired  restaurant-keeper  was 
hesitating.  The  easy-going  manner  of  these  two  Bohemians 
had  commended  itself  to  him,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he 
explained  that  at  four  the  cathedral  closed  for  the  day.  If 
thev  would  meet  him  half-an-hour  later  at  a  side-door  which 
he  indicated,  the  cathedral  being  in  sight  from  where  they 
were  sitting,  he  would  take  them  in  just  for  an  instant's 
peep  at  it. 

1  It's  against  the  bishop's  orders,  you  know,'  he  added  ; 
1  but  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.' 

Both  men  thanked  him  heartily,  and  the  two  spent  the 
afternoon  inspecting  the  Roman  remains,  the  great,  gloomy 
old  Porta  Nigra  and  other  lions  of  the  place,  until  half-past 
four,  when  they  kept  the  appointment.  Unfortunately, 
however,  almost  at  the  same  instant  that  the  good-hearted 
restaurant-keeper  arrived  with  his  key,  the  bishop  himself 
emerged  from  that  verv  door.  The  great  man,  seeing  the 
honorary  guardian  in  company  with  strangers  in  tweed 
suits,  regarded  him  with  suspicion,  and  on  account  of  that 
their  friend  dared  not  allow  them  to  enter.  So  again  they 
were  thwarted  and  disappointed  ;  again  they  went  back  to 
Luxemburg  to  sleep,  wearied,  after  a  long  and  futile  day. 

The  life  of  the  special  correspondent  is  fraught  with 
many  adventures,  and  though  frequently  enjoyable,  the 
difficulties  which  beset  his  path  are  often  almost  insur- 
mountable.     Travelling   and  sight-seeing  are  not   his  only 


THE   BOOM  i37 

duties.  He  has  always  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  news 
agencies  are  everywhere  at  work  and  may  forestall  him, 
supplying  his  paper  with  a  longer  and  better  account  of  the 
event  than  he  himself  is  able  to  obtain,  and  that,  in  such 
case,  his  journal  has  expended  a  good  round  sum  in  expenses 
and  telegraphy  for  absolutelv  nothing,  his  c  copv  '  on  arrival 
being  pitched  into  the  waste-paper  basket  as  l  old  stuff,' 
which  Reuter's  have  alreadv  done  better.  Again,  as 
Reuter's  correspondent  is  generally  a  well-known  inhabitant 
of  the  town,  he  alwavs  secures  priority  at  the  telegraph 
office,  which,  to  the  special  correspondent,  is  a  matter  of 
the  very  highest  importance.  It  is,  indeed,  on  record  that 
the  correspondent  of  a  well-known  morning  paper,  in  order 
to  secure  the  monopoly  of  a  wire  to  London,  gave  the 
telegraphist  a  copv  of  the  Bible,  and  told  him  to  telegraph 
it.  This  was  done,  and  when  the  operator  had  got  to  the 
fourth  chapter  of  Genesis,  the  enterprising  correspondent 
handed  in  his  telegram,  afterwards  causing  two  more  chap- 
ters to  be  telegraphed,  so  as  to  close  the  wire  for  a  time 
against  anv  other  message  to  London.  Dodges  such  as 
these  are  in  the  everyday  life  of  the  successful  correspondent, 
the  man  who  travels  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the 
other  as  diligent  servant  of  the  British  public. 

In  this  case  it  looked  verv  much  as  if  the  correspondents 
of  the  Evening  Telegraph  and  the  Graphic  would  have  to 
depart  emptv  awav.  That  night,  however,  thev  held 
solemn  counsel,  and  next  day,  returning  to  the  pilgrimage- 
town,  thev  purchased  blue  linen  blouses  of  that  form  so 
popular  in  Belgium  and  Luxemburg,  and  buying  straw  hats, 
copies  of  the  canticles,  a  rosarv  each,  and  a  cross  of  red 
and  blue  silk,  which  they  pinned  to  their  breasts,  lounged 
about  the  Place  before  the  cathedral,  watching  their 
opportunitv. 

At  last  it  came.      A  great  pilgrimage  from  Metz  arrived 


1 33  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

in  procession,  headed  by  priests,  banners,  censers,  and  other 
accessories,  and  slowly  entered  the  ancient  pile.  Unob- 
served in  the  crush,  the  pair  joined  it,  while  Lena  went 
across  to  a  cafe  to  await  them,  and  chanting  the  canticles 
vociferously,  artist  and  journalist  wended  their  way  through 
the  zealously-guarded  portals  into  the  great,  dimly-lit  cathe- 
dral, where  upon  the  high  altar,  surrounded  by  a  thousand 
candles,  the  sacred  and  much  revered  relic  was  exposed  to 
view.  On  either  side  stood  two  priests  in  gorgeous  vest- 
ments, and  as  the  pilgrims  passed  in  single  file  before  it, 
thev  handed  up  their  rosaries,  rings,  or  handkerchiefs  to  be 
placed  for  an  instant  in  contact  with  the  piece  of  brown 
stuff,  which  looked  something  like  sack-cloth,  departing  in 
belief  that  the  articles  possessed  a  supernatural  power  to 
heal   all   diseases. 

The  sight  was  a  strangely  impressive  one,  a  marvellous 
illustration  of  the  peasant's  firm  belief  in  the  teaching  of  the 
priests.  The  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pilgrims  swarming 
in  that  town,  eating  up  every  particle  of  food  like  locusts, 
sleeping  bv  the  wayside,  and  travelling  to  and  fro  in  rail- 
way cattle-trucks,  were  fully  confident  that  this  was  the 
veritable  coat  which  our  Lord  wore  at  His  crucifixion, 
even  though  microscopical  analysis  had  long  ago  proved 
that  the  material  from  which  it  was  originally  woven  was 
unknown  until  four  centuries  later.  The  French,  German, 
or  Italian  peasant  will  believe  anything  which  the  priest 
tells  him,  and  even  here,  in  Treves,  the  restaurant-keeper, 
who  was  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  revered  tunic,  had 
remarked  to  Rosmead  : 

c  Ah  !   all  this  is  a  fine  harvest  for  the  priests.' 

Such   being  the  case,  was  it  any  wonder  that  the   Paris 

Figaro  should   one  day  have  treated   its  readers   to  a  learned 

and  diverting  discourse  upon  the  discover}-  in  Austria  of  a 

holy  pair   of  trousers  ?      Was    it   any   wonder,   either,  that 


THE   BOOM  139 

this  pair  of  irresponsible  merry-makers  should  have  treated 
the  exhibition  as  a  huge  joke,  and  poked  fun  at  it  ?  Bv 
three  o'clock  they  had  escaped  from  the  crowd  and  rejoined 
Lena,  then,  having  held  consultation,  decided  to  leave 
Treves  at  once  and  spend  a  day  or  so  in  one  of  the  quiet 
villages  on  the  Moselle,  where  thev  might  finish  their  work 
without  interruption.  Rosmead  looked  at  his  map,  and 
found  a  village  in  which  he  had  spent  a  few  davs  when  on 
tramp  after  leaving  Paris.  It  was  Alf,  a  sleepv  little  place, 
situated  at  the  bend  of  the  river  amid  most  picturesque  sur- 
roundings, a  spot  unknown  to  the  tourist,  quaint,  lethargic, 
and  wo  rid- forgotten. 

So  that  night  thev  found  themselves  at  the  old  inn,  the 
onlv  one  Alf  possesses,  famous  for  its  trout,  its  Brauneber- 
ger,  and  its  Berncastel  c  Doctor,'  a  low-built,  old-fashioned 
hostelrv,  which  onlv  awakens  from  its  slumbers  thrice 
daily,  when  the  dustv  old  post-diligence  on  its  way  from 
Treves  to  Coblenz,  or  the  one  from  Cochem,  awav  over 
the  Eifel,  arrives  and  changes  horses.  The  approach  of  the 
,  lumbering  old  vehicle  is  heralded  bv  the  winding  of  a  horn, 
which  echoes  for  miles  along  the  vallev,  warning  the  post- 
master to  have  his  bag  in  readiness  and  the  ostler  to  harness 
the  horses.  The  charm  of  the  old  place  had  lingered  in 
Rosmead's  memorv.  He  well  remembered  how  he  had 
worked  for  a  dav  or  two  gathering  grapes  on  that  hill-side, 
and  had  slept  in  a  drv  outhouse  not  far  from  the  inn.  In- 
deed, from  the  window  of  his  room  next  morning  he  saw 
the  shed  which  had  given  him  shelter,  and  sighed  when  the 
bitter  truth  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  even  happier  in 
those  wild,  free  davs  than   now. 

The  August  dav  was  bright  and  warm,  and  while  Lena 
amused  herself  in  the  garden  beside  the  river  among  the 
bowers  of  Marechal  Niel  roses,  her  husband  sat  near  her  in 
the   open    air,  writing   a  description   of  the    Holv  Coat  of 


140  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

Treves,  and  Teddy,  having  found  an  easy  wicker  chair  in  the 
inn,  brought  it  out,  stuck  his  legs  on  another,  and  proceeded 
to  finish  the  rough  sketches  he  had  made.  Rosmead  had 
received  instructions  to  treat  the  subject  just  as  he  found  it. 
He  had  found  it  ridiculous,  therefore  he  wrote  the  most 
amusing  yet  the  most  bitter  criticism  of  any  that  had 
appeared  in  the  Press.  He  headed  his  article  c  The  Holy 
Coat  of  Treves  :  By  an  Amateur  Pilgrim,'  described  his 
efforts  to  view  the  c  sacred  '  relic,  and  how  subsequently  he 
went  in  decked  out  in  his  double  cross  of  red  and  blue,  a 
pious  expression  on  his  face,  and  a  rosary  in  his  hand.  From 
time  to  time  as  he  wrote  he  smiled,  and  then,  in  reply  to 
Teddy's  demands,  read  aloud  the  most  amusing  extracts, 
causing  roars  of  laughter.  This  article,  which  he  transmitted 
to  London  later  in  the  day,  was  without  doubt  an  exceedingly 
clever  piece  of  work,  and  justly  won  for  him  a  reputation  as 
correspondent.  It  was  strikingly  brilliant.  Unlike  the  pro- 
duction of  the  majoritv  of  correspondents,  who,  in  their  pain- 
ful endeavours  to  be  funny,  project  a  few  wisps  of  wit  into 
their  wilderness  of  words,  it  was  genuinely  and  excruciatingly 
humorous.  Indeed,  such  was  its  biting  sarcasm  and  caustic 
criticism,  that  within  a  week  of  its  appearance  in  the  Even- 
ing Telegraph  it  received  the  distinction  of  being  translated 
into  German,  and  appearing,  with  illustrations,  in  the  best- 
known  of  the  comic  journals  in  Berlin,  the  result  being 
that  the  editor  of  that  paper  was  afterwards  prosecuted  for 
ridiculing  a  holy  relic,  and  sentenced  to  enforced  retirement 
for  six  months ! 

That  night,  when  Rosmead  had  dispatched  his  article, 
they  dined  out  in  the  garden  beneath  the  trailing  roses,  and 
afterwards,  when  it  grew  dark  and  the  dew  fell,  smoked  in 
the  long  old  dining-room,  with  its  antique  carved  oak  and 
its  row  of  old  drinking-mugs  upon  the  buffet.  They  were 
the  only  visitors  at  the  inn,  the  only  strangers  in  Alf ;   for 


THE   BOOM  141 

as  yet  the  Moselle  is  unknown  to  the  tourist,  although  the 
dav  is  not  far  distant  when  the  Rhine-weary  holiday-maker 
will  turn  his  step  towards  the  Eifel  and  the  Moselle,  and 
1  grand '  hotels  and  pensions  will  raise  their  hideous  white 
facades  upon  the  vine-covered,  ruin-crested  slopes  between 
the  Marienberg  and  the  Schloss  Eltz,  that  structure  so 
bewildering  that  one  wonders  how  it  could  have  been  built 
by  human  hands. 

Lena  retired  to  bed  early,  with  an  excuse  that  she  was 
tired,  and  the  two  men  sat  for  an  hour  or  so,  smoking,  and 
sipping  a  bottle  of  Brauneberger  of  that  delicious  bouquet 
which  one  can  obtain  only  in  the  country  where  it  is  made. 
They  were  alone  in  the  great,  half-lighted  old  room.  The 
window  was  still  open,  and  beyond  glistened  the  river  rip- 
pling in  the  light  of  the  full  moon.  The  post-diligence, 
with  its  jingling  bells,  had  arrived,  changed  its  horses,  and 
departed  on  its  long  night  journey  to  Coblenz,  just  as  it  had 
done  any  time  during  the  past  century  or  so,  and  all  was 
still  and  peaceful  in  the  little  old-world  village.  Within 
sight  of  the  window,  in  the  full  moonlight,  stood  the  plain 
stone  cross  with  a  list  of  names  inscribed  thereon,  the 
names  of  those  gallant  sons  of  Alf  who  fell  at  Sedan  in  the 
war  with  the  French  in  '70. 

c  Then  we  return  to-morrow,'  the  artist  was  saying. 
4  Can't  you  stay  another  couple  of  days  ?  It's  pleasant 
enough  here.  You  want  a  change,  old  chap.  It  will  do 
you  good.' 

c  Yes,'  his  friend  said.  c  I  feel  as  if  a  month's  rest 
would  set  me  up  \  but  it  is  impossible.  We  are  short- 
handed  at  the  office,  and  a  fortnight's  holiday  a  year  is  all 
anybody  at  our  place  is  entitled  to.' 

1 1  should  try  and  spin  out  a  few  more  days,  if  I  were 
you,'   he   said   persuasively. 

c  No,'  he  answered.     c  Impossible.     I've  got  other  work 


142  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

on  hand  that  I  must  do.  An  artist,  like  yourself,  is  his 
own  master ;  but  a  journalist  is  always  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  the  journal  which  employs  him.  I  only  wish  it 
were  possible  to  spend  a  week  or  two  here.  I  know  the 
country.  It's  the  most  peaceful  and  most  beautiful  in  all 
Germany,  the  ideal  holiday  resort  for  an  over-worked 
man.' 

4  Then  you  absolutely  must  go  to-morrow  ?  ' 

4  Yes,'  he  answered.  l  My  story  in  Clippings  is  not  fin- 
ished, and  as  it's  being  published  week  by  week,  I  can't 
be  behind  with  it.  Besides,  I've  two  fresh  commissions 
which  will  keep  me  busy  for  the  next  month  or  so.' 

c  Soon  you'll  be  able  to  dispense  with  newspaper  work, 
my  dear  fellow.  You've  certainly  made  a  hit  in  Clippings. 
They've  boomed  you  magnificently.' 

'Yes,'  Rosmead  answered.  'Nowadays  everything  is 
boom.  Without  advertisement,  even  Scott  or  Dickens 
wouldn't  stand  a  chance  to-day.  This  is  proved  by  the 
splendid  books  by  cultured  writers  which  are  dead  failures 
because  they  are  not  sufficiently  advertised.  Publishers 
are  fond  of  saying  that  advertisement  will  never  make  a 
bad  book  go.  But  look  at  any  library  list,  and  you'll  find 
that  the  best  advertised  book  is  the  book  in  the  greatest 
demand.' 

'  I  don't  read  novels  very  much,'  Teddy  observed,  smil- 
ing, c  but  when  I  do,  I  somehow  manage  to  get  hold  of  a 
choice  sample  of  rubbish.  My  luck,  I  suppose.  When 
people  —  women  who  sit  to  me,  for  example  —  rave  about 
a  book,  I  read  it,  but  it  generally  turns  out  to  be  some 
insane  rot — sex  problem,  the  emancipation  of  women,  or 
such  like  theme,  which  is  discussed  in  smart  society,  and 
thereby  obtains  a  dinner-table  notoriety.' 

c  That's  just  what  makes  a  book  go,'  his  friend  said, 
*  dinner-table  chatter.     I   maintain  that   anything,  be  it  a 


THE   BOOM  143 

quack  medicine,  somebody's   soap,  or  a  new  novel,  provid- 
ing it  is  judiciously  advertised,  will  sell  like  hot  cakes.' 

1  The  boom  is  of  the  man  nowadays,  not  his  works. 
Look  at  some  men  in  the  Savage,  for  example.' 

1  Of  course,'  the  journalist  answered.  l  I  know  one 
man  in  your  club  whose  sole  claim  to  distinction  is  that  he 
once  wrote  a  blood-curdler  in  the  Boy's  Own  Terrifier.  He 
has  the  audacity  to  invite  serious  editors  to  lunch,  holds 
forth  on  the  higher  criticism,  and  having  gone  through  the 
paragraph  boom,  is  now  accepted  as  a  genius.  He  means 
to  write  a  book  some  day.' 

1  Ah !  I  know  that  man,'  Teddy  said,  laughing. 
c  There's  lots  of  his  sort  about.  Nowadays  men  get  boomed 
before  they've  done  anything.  It's  puff  first  and  work 
after  with  you  literary  men.  With  us,  we  have  to  make  a 
bit  of  a  show  in  the  Academy  before  anybody  will  believe 
in  us.' 

c  Yes,  every  paper  has  its  literary  column,  and  will  pub- 
lish paragraphs  about  the  doings  of  the  most  unknown 
tyro  in  fiction,  because  they're  only  too  glad  to  get  hold  of 
stuff  to  fill  it  up.  Hence  the  twaddle  you  read  about 
novelists.  A  man's  true  worth  is  never  known  by  the 
public,  because  the  greater  art  a  novelist  displays  in  boom- 
ing himself,  the  greater  is  the  public's  appreciation.  Why, 
there's  one  man  actually  known  in  literary  circles  as 
u  The  Boomster,"  because  he  has  elevated  the  art  of  self- 
advertisement  to  a  science.' 

'  You'll  never  do  that,  old  chap,'  Teddy  said.  '  You're 
too  much  of  a  Bohemian  ever  to  become  a  literary 
bounder.' 

'I  hope  I  never  shall,'  Rosmead  answered.  'They  say 
success  spoils  a  man.      It  might  spoil  me.' 

1  No,  never,'  his  friend  answered.  Then,  lowering  his 
voice,  he  added,  c  The  only  thing  that  I  fear  may  spoil  you, 


144  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

may  even  ruin  you,  Bertram,  is  vour  domestic  infelicity. 
Lena  seems  more  petulant,  more  nervous,  more  hysterical 
than  ever.' 

The  journalist  sighed. 

c  Yes,'  he  replied.  '  You  know  mv  difficulties,  old 
chap.  I've  confided  in  no  one  but  yourself.  My  life  is 
absolutely  colourless  and  blank.  I  work  on,  it's  true.  I'm 
gradually  beginning  to  reap  the  benefit  of  my  years  of 
hard  struggle,  but  I  fear  it's  all  in  vain  —  it  all  leads  to 
nothing.' 

'Yours  is  hard  luck  —  devilish  hard  luck,'  observed 
Teddy,  sighing.  l  I  only  wish  I  could  help  vou,  but  while 
you  are  still  with  her  you  are  hopeless.  I  don't  say  that 
to  disparage  her,  but  merely  because  I'm  vour  friend,  you 
understand.' 

'You  told  me  so  long  ago,'  Rosmead  observed  mechan- 
icallv.      '  I'm  seriously  hampered  bv  her.' 

'  Not  onlv  hampered,'  Teddy  said  seriouslv,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  friend  of  his  student  days.  '  Not  only 
hampered,  but  disgraced.' 

'  Disgraced  r '  cried  the  journalist,  starting  forward,  for 
he  had  told  not  a  soul  of  Lena's  penchant  for  drink.  'Dis- 
graced ?     What  do  vou  mean  ? ' 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BOHEMIA    AND    BELGRAVIA 

In  an  instant  Teddv  O'Donovan  saw  that  his  anxiety  for 
his  old  friend's  welfare  had  once  more  nearly  led  him  to 
betray  himself.  With  consummate  tact,  however,  he 
laughed  at  his  friend's  eager  inquiry,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation  into   a  different  channel. 

For  an  hour  they  continued  to  chat,  then  parted  for 
the  night. 

When  Rosmead  entered  his  bedroom,  however,  he  found 
his  wife  seated  in  an  easy-chair  in  a  state  of  semi-intoxica- 
tion. Before  leaving  London  he  had  placed  a  bottle  of 
brandy  in  his  bag,  in  case  of  emergencies,  and  the  remains 
of  this  she  had  emptied. 

'You've  been  a  long  time,'  she  said  huskilv,  inert  and 
helpless.  c  I  thought  you'd  never  leave  your  pal.  Was 
his  conversation   so  very   interesting  ?  ' 

He  glanced  at  the  empty  bottle  standing  upon  the  dress- 
ing-table, and  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

c  You  had  better  go  to  bed,'  he  said  calmly.  '  It's  late, 
and  you  are  tired  —  very  tired.' 

4  Yes,'  she  said,  '  I'm  very  tired,'  and  she  sighed  wearily, 
and  began  to  prepare  herself  for  bed.  He  knew  it  was  use- 
less to  talk  to  her  in  that  condition,  therefore  did  not  attempt 
it.  She  had  promised  him  on  the  night  she  had  gone  to 
the  Empire  that  she  would  not  drink  again,  but  she  had 
broken  her  promise,  and  was  now  stupidly  drunk.     True  it 

IO 


146  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

was,  as  Teddy  had  long  ago  predicted,  this  woman,  with 
her  powdered  doll's  face  and  coquettish  manner,  would  ruin 
him.  Slowly,  but  surely,  he  was  achieving  fame,  yet  the 
fruit  of  all  his  labour  was  thrown  to  the  winds.  Now  that 
this  terrible  truth  was  forced  upon  him,  he  found  himself  be- 
coming more  and  more  callous,  more  heedless  of  reputation 
and  of  fame.  Hundreds  of  times  he  had  heard  it  said  that 
in  woman  drunkenness  was  a  vice  which  could  never  be 
eradicated.  This  penchant  for  drink  created  a  breach  be- 
tween Lena  and  himself  which  widened  daily  —  which  some 
day  must  put  them  asunder. 

Yet,  when  he  reflected,  he  remembered  that  each  man  and 
woman  had  some  besetting  sin,  and  he  debated  within  him- 
self whether,  after  all,  it  was  fair  to  abandon  her  on  account 
of  a  failing  over  which  she  had  no  control.  She  was  a 
woman,  he  remembered,  and  a  woman  had  not  the  strength 
of  will  which  a  man  possessed.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
sighed  when  he  remembered  how  for  months  she  had  sought 
to  deride  his  work  and  to  heap  ridicule  upon  it,  in  order 
that,  instead  of  striving  to  gain  a  livelihood  by  fiction,  he 
might  take  her  to  those  lower  music-halls  in  the  direction 
of  which  her  vulgar  tastes  always  led  her.  She  hated  thea- 
tres, but  loved  variety  entertainments  and  ballets.  It  was 
not  for  the  art  displayed  there,  for  she  had  not  the  slightest 
artistic  instinct  either  in  her  dress,  in  her  home,  or  in  her 
amusements,  but  merelv  because  the  songs  had  a  double 
entendre,  and  the  dances  were  a  trifle  risky.  Things  are 
said,  and  suggestions  are  made,  on  the  stage  of  the  modern 
music-hall  which  would  not  have  been  tolerated  in  public 
even  in  those  degenerate  days  when  the  c  Hole  in  the  Wall ' 
still  existed.  Girls  in  their  teens  are  now  taken  by  their 
elders  to  witness  performances  which  are  fraught  with  thin- 
ly-disguised indecencies,  and  learn  to  laugh  at  them  without 
a  blush.     Even  with  such  useless  officials  as  County  Coun- 


BOHEMIA  AND   BELGRAVIA  147 

cil  inspectors  and  the  mock  supervision  of  Bumbledom,  the 
state  of  the  modern  music-hall  has  never  been  so  bad  as  it 
is  at  present,  for  in  no  capital  in  Europe  is  prostitution  so 
openly  tolerated  and  encouraged  as  it  is  by  the  management 
of  the  West-end  c  hall.'  Even  the  state  of  the  Moulin 
Rouo-e,  that  pasteboard  and  gilt  hall  of  Terpsichore  which 
Paris  supports  for  the  delectation  of  the  foreigner,  is  less 
pernicious  than  the  gilt  and  plush  c  lounge  '  of  the  first- 
class   London   music-hall. 

The  recent  puritanical  movement  which  aimed  at  sweep- 
ing clean  our  music-halls  may  have  been  ill-timed,  but  its 
object  was  commendable,  for  while  the  County  Council 
investigate  very  closelv  the  application  of  an  East-end 
public-house  for  a  dancing  licence,  they  license  the  West- 
end  halls  for  vice  with  scarcely  an  inquiry.  Possibly  many 
of  those  estimable  seekers  after  notoriety  who  are  so  fond 
of  writing  c  C.C  after  their  names  hold  shares  in  the 
various  halls,  and  are  well  aware  that  such  investments  are 
extremely  profitable.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how 
many  members  of  the  London  County  Council  hold  shares 
in  London  music-halls.  Sad  as  it  is,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a 
fact   that    vice   pays   always. 

Rosmead  said  nothing  to  his  wife  next  morning.  He 
merely  placed  the  empty  bottle  aside  when  packing,  deem- 
ing it  best  to  treat  the  matter  with  indifference,  and  two 
days  later  they  were  back  again  in  their  gloomy  chambers 
in  that  dreariest  and  dingiest  of  London  Inns. 

Marcus  Aurelius  has  left  directions  by  means  of  which 
every  worry-line  may  be  removed  from  the  hand,  and  every 
anxious  wrinkle  from  the  face.  If  that  tranquil  philosopher, 
skilled  in  the  science  of  the  imperturbables,  could  visit  the 
interior  of  a  London  newspaper  office,  he  would  be  shocked 
at  the  unnatural  disfigurements  of  those  who  scribble  for 
their  daily  bread.     As  the  journalist's  worries  increase,  the 


143  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

hairs  decrease,  until  the  bald  truth  shines  out  unmistakably. 
Such  being  the  case,  it  is  the  first  duty  of  the  sub-editor  to 
school  himself  not  to  worry.  The  secret,  of  course,  lies  in 
the  concentration  of  the  forces  upon  the  thing  in  hand 
without  suspense  as  to  the  issue.  He  may,  of  course,  have 
the  issue  of  the  paper  at  heart.  That  is  his  duty.  Only  the 
act  of  God,  the  Queen's  enemies,  and  other  modes  of 
the  inevitable,  release  him  from  responsibilitv,  and  therefore 
he  sits  in  his  chair,  calm  and  unmoved  bv  any  of  those 
extraordinary  events  which  hourlv  flow  before  his  notice. 
Every  moment,  indeed,  demonstrates  the  incongruity  of  a 
world  where  a  man  may  fall  fifty  feet  over  a  precipice 
without  hurting  himself  to-day,  and  to-morrow  die  of  eating 
a  faded  oyster.  But  he  is  a  pressman,  without  conscience 
and  without  nerves,  and  the  stranger  the  story,  the  more 
interesting;    it   will   be    to   his   readers. 

On  Bertram  resuming  his  chair,  he  found  that  his  article 
on  the  Holv  Coat,  while  giving  the  most  complete  satisfac- 
tion to  Sir  Charles  and  to  the  Oxford  young  gentleman 
whose  lack  of  journalistic  knowledge  fitted  him  for  the 
post  of  editor,  had  aroused  the  bitterest  indignation  of  l  The 
Worm  '  and  his  colleagues.  The  young  gentleman  with 
the  fair  moustache,  the  height  of  whose  attainment  had 
been  the  writing  of  a  description  of  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show 
—  mainly  from  the  dusty  files  of  the  past  —  had  believed  him- 
self qualified  for  the  office  of  special  correspondent,  and 
his  criticism  of  Rosmead's  article  was  extremely  amusing 
by  reason  of  its  painful  hostility  and  its  Carlvlean  flow  of 
big  words.  This  talented  young  gentleman  that  very  dav 
wrote  two  reports,  one  in  which  he  referred  to  an  assem- 
blage of  local  '  magnets,'  and  in  the  other,  reporting  a 
speech  regarding  affairs  in  Alatabeleland,  he  wrote  that  the 
natives  were  returning  to  their  c  crawls.' 

The  life  of  a  sub-editor  on   a   daily   paper,  though   one 


BOHEMIA   AND   BELGRAVIA  149 

of  terrible  monotony,  is  fraught  with  some  diversions,  and 
that  of  Bertram  Rosmead  was  no  exception.  His  home  life 
was  wretched  enough,  and  his  harassing  work  sufficient  to 
turn  his  hair  grey  before  its  time.  Indeed,  since  he  had 
occupied  his  chair  in  that  office,  he  felt  himself  prematurely 
ageing,  and  had  dropped  into  a  groove,  working  mechan- 
ically, half  inclined  to  abandon  all  hope  of  becoming  a 
successful  novelist. 

One  day,  when  one  of  the  trinity  was  away  suffering 
from  a  bilious  attack  —  a  frequently-recurring  malady  in 
the  office  of  the  Evening  Telegraph  —  and  Mr.  Fownes  had 
gone  out  after  his  lunch  to  obtain  ten  minutes  of  fresh  air 
on  Waterloo  Bridge,  Rosmead  chanced  to  be  called  out  of 
his  room  to  consult  the  head-printer.  When  he  returned, 
a  few  minutes  later,  all  the  tapes  were  still  working  away 
industriously,  with  that  dull,  metallic,  monotonous  click, 
the  long  strips  of  white  and  green  paper  twisting  like  snakes 
into  the  baskets  below. 

Before  re-seating  himself  he  glanced  along  at  them  to 
discover  what  was  the  latest  news,  when  his  eyes  caught 
the  following  startling  words  :  l  Her  Majesty  died  at 
Windsor  at  a  few  minutes  past  noon   to-day.' 

He  stood  dumbfounded.  In  every  newspaper  office 
throughout  the  kingdom  the  death  of  the  Queen  is  an  event 
spoken  of  with  bated  breath.  Indeed,  in  every  office  of  a 
daily  journal  there  are  a  special  set  of  emergency  arrange- 
ments to  be  put  in  force  in  case  of  such  national  bereave- 
ment. 

Rosmead  glanced  at  the  tape,  and  saw  it  was  the  one 
supplied  by  the  Exchange  Telegraph  Company.  Rushing 
across  to  one  of  the  speaking-tubes,  he  shouted  down  to 
the  machine-room,  c  Stand  by  there  !     Queen's  dead  ! ' 

In  an  instant  the  appalling  news  spread  through  everv  de- 
partment of  the  great  establishment,  and  news-runners,  those 


150  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

sturdy  itinerant,  strident-voiced  fellows  who  dash  along  with 
bundles  of  paper  beneath  their  arms,  hearing  it,  ran  out  into 
the  Strand,  proclaiming  the  terrible  intelligence  to  passers-by. 
Within  a  few  minutes  a  crowd  of  clerks,  printers,  reporters, 
and  others  assembled  in  the  sub-editor's  room  to  view  the 
telegram,  and  Rosmead  was  in  the  meantime  at  the  telephone 
asking  the  head  office  of  the  Exchange  Company,  in  the 
Haymarket,  whether  they  had  any  confirmation  of  the 
startling  report. 

c  It  don't  want  any  confirmation.  We're  not  in  the 
habit  of  sending  out  fictitious  news,'  answered  a  deep, 
sepulchral  voice. 

c  But  it  is  not  confirmed  by  any  other  agency,'  Rosmead 
observed. 

c  They'll  get  it  later  on,'  said  the  voice.  'Our  rivals 
are  always  a  day  behind  the  fair.' 

c  But  where  did  you  get  the  report  from  ?  '  inquired  the 
sub-editor. 

1  Our  correspondent  at  Windsor.  He's  reliable  — very 
reliable.' 

Mr.  Fownes  had  just  entered,  hot  and  breathless.  He 
had  overheard  the  report  in  the  Strand,  and  rushed  upstairs 
three  at  a  time. 

1  Better  wire  to  our  Windsor  correspondent,  and  send  a 
reporter  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  office,'  he  suggested. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  composing  room  the  burly  head- 
printer,  hearing  the  news,  continued  eating  his  lunch  un- 
disturbed, merely  ejaculating  c  Queen's  dead.  Turn  the 
column-rules/  The  column-rules  set  upside  down,  it  may 
be  explained,  causes  the  paper  to  appear  striped  in  deep 
mourning.  If  the  heavens  had  fallen,  the  head-printer 
would  not   have  abandoned  his  lunch. 

All  was  ready.  Mr.  Fownes,  as  chief  sub-editor,  had 
assumed  the  painful  duty  of  writing  the   introduction  to  the 


BOHEMIA  AND   BELGRAVIA  151 

melancholy  report,  and  had  finished  a  dozen  lines  or  so, 
commencing  :  '  It  is  with  heartfelt  regret  that  we  are  com- 
pelled to  report,'  etc.  Rosmead  had  found,  in  a  dusty  cup- 
board, a  column  of  stereotyped  obituary,  which  had  been 
kept  there  in  readiness  for  the  past  decade,  and  the  machines 
were  being  prepared  to  pour  out  their  tons  of  copies  of  the 
paper,  when  into  the  sub-editor's  room  entered  a  short, 
dark  man,  carrying  a  black  leather  bag,  the  telegraph-inspec- 
tor of  the  Exchange  Telegraph  Company. 

All  pounced  upon  him.  His  duty  was  to  go  the  round 
of  the  London  newspaper  offices  and  see  that  the  tapes 
were  working  properly. 

c  Look  at  this ! '  they  cried,  placing  the  telegram  before 
him.      l  Have  you  seen  it  on  any  other  tape  ? ' 

The  man  looked  at  it,  then  glancing  at  them,  burst  out 
laughing. 

4  Well,  what  are  you  laughing  at  ? '  Rosmead  cried  indig- 
nantly. '  Come,  we're  wasting  time.  Other  papers  will 
be  out  before  us.' 

c  Look  here,'  exclaimed  the  inspector,  diving  down  into 
the  basket  where  rejected  telegraphic  tapes  were  thrown, 
and  taking  out  a  small  piece,  which  he  held  before  them. 
Upon  it  were   but   four  words,    c  John   Harker,  coachman 

to ' 

1  You've  only  got  half  the  message,'  the  inspector  laughed. 
'  This  is  the  first  part,  which  has  evidently  been  torn  off  and 
flung  down  before  the  second  half  came  up.  Surely  the 
death  of  the  Queen's  coachman  isn't  such  an  extraordinary 
event  ? ' 

Everybody  laughed  immoderately.  The  inspector  had 
saved  the  Evening  Telegraph  from  being  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  world,  for  in  a  few  more  moments  thousands 
of  copies  would  have  been  selling  in  the  London  streets. 
The  speaking-tubes  were  next  instant  at  work,  the  orders 


152  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

countermanded,  and  the  head-printer,  still  eating  his  lunch, 
ejaculated,  his  mouth  full  of  bread  and  cheese  :  '  Turn  the 
rules  back.  Subs,  have  had  a  glass  o'  bitter,  and  it's  made 
'em  drunk.' 

Five  minutes  later,  the  office  of  that  dignified  and  highly- 
respectable  journal  resumed  its  normal  aspect. 

As  the  months  passed,  Rosmead  kept  diligently  at  work, 
and  had,  by  dint  of  toiling  on,  in  face  of  Lena's  ill-will  and 
obstinacy,  concluded  a  new  novel  dealing  with  life  in  the 
old  town  of  Blois,  where  some  of  his  childhood  days  had 
been  spent.  With  success  he  had  tried  another  firm  of 
publishers,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  issued,  it  was  hailed  on 
every  hand  as  a  masterly  piece  of  fiction.  Nearly  all  the 
morning  papers  reviewed  it  as  a  serious  piece  of  work,  and 
within  a  week  there  began  to  appear  paragraphs  about  his 
birthplace,  his  education  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  his 
present  occupation.  In  the  literary  columns  of  the  other 
evening  papers  there  were  laudatory  paragraphs,  declaring 
that  this  book  was  one  of  the  books  of  the  season ;  that  its 
first  edition  had  been  exhausted  on  the  day  of  publication, 
and  that,  no  doubt,  his  marvellously  true  picture  of  French 
middle-class  life  was  due  to  his  cosmopolitan  parentage. 

He  had  undoubtedly  made  a  hit  at  last.  This  was 
proved  by  the  fact  that  one  or  two  c  At  home '  cards  began 
to  dribble  in  upon  him,  cards  from  hostesses  who  make  a 
point  of  inviting  notable  novelists,  artists,  and  musicians 
to  their  exclusive  gatherings,  for  the  delectation  of  their 
guests.  It  is  a  cheap  way  of  providing  entertainment  of 
an  afternoon,  for  most  people  like  to  meet  the  writer  of  a 
book  they  have  read  and  admired,  even  though  the  author 
may  be  a  very  disappointing,  matter-of-fact  person  in  the 
flesh. 

Thus  was  Bertram  bidden  to  the  drawing-rooms  of 
Kensington  and  Belgravia.     He  received  letters  expressing 


BOHEMIA   AND    BELGRAVIA  153 

admiration  of  his  work,  and  asking  for  his  autograph, 
applications  for  his  photograph  from  editors  of  illustrated 
journals,  while  commissions  for  short  stories  began  to  come 
in  unsolicited. 

Even  this  did  not  cause  Lena  the  slightest  gratification. 
She  saw  that  he  alone  was  invited  to  the  houses  of  the  rich, 
that  his  success  meant  her  elevation  bevond  her  present 
sphere,  and  she  declared  that  she  hated  the  ways  of  what 
she  termed  c  grand  society.'  Her  tastes  lav  in  the  direction 
of  a  low  Strand  bar,  where  she  could  sip  that  infusion  of 
logwood  and  alcohol  sold  under  the  name  of  port,  nibble  a 
biscuit,  and  listen  to  the  broad  remarks  of  the  unfortunate 
women  about  her.  To  her,  an  evening  at  a  respectable 
house  was  a  trial,  unendurable  if  there  was  not  sufficient 
to  drink.  But  whenever  whiskey  made  its  appearance  on 
anv  table,  she  never  failed  to  disgrace  him  bv  helping  her- 
self to   half  a  tumblerful. 

In  these  invitations  Rosmead  saw  a  means  of  advance- 
ment. The  author  who  avoids  societv  hides  his  light 
beneath  a  bushel,  and  remains  unknown.  To  the  popular 
author,  as  to  the  actor,  advertisement  is  evervthing  in  these 
degenerate  davs  of  boom  and  bunkum.  If  he  looks  in  at 
Mrs.  So  and  So's  c  At  home,'  the  fact  is  dulv  chronicled  in 
next  week's  Lady's  Pictorial,  as  well  as  in  the  Morning  Post 
of  the  following  dav ;  if  he  attends  a  public  dinner,  his 
name  is  placed  among  the  guests ;  and  if  he  has  the  gift 
of  public  speaking,  he  will  have  a  heading  all  to  himself 
in  the  morning  papers,  such  as  l  Mr.  Scrivener  on  Modern 
Fiction.'  Self-advertisement  is  the  secret  of  all  success  in 
modern  literature.  It  is  bv  this  necessity  of  posing  in 
societv  that  the  modern  novelist,  in  so  manv  instances, 
becomes  vain,  egotistical,  and  even  insufferable  among  his 
own  set.  Anv  writer  of  fiction  can  count  a  score  of  men, 
mostly  second-rate,  who  were  once  good   fellows,  but  who 


154  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

are  now  consumed  by  their  own  conceit,  and  fancy  that 
the  mantle  of  Scott  or  Dickens  has  fallen  upon  them.  To 
such  men  the  cheap  puff  is  their  very  life.  They  would 
black  the  boots  of  the  editor  of  the  chief  literary  journal 
in  return  for  a  review  (with  extracts)  of  their  last  book, 
and  will  take  a  thousand-mile  railway  journey  in  order 
that  their  names  may  appear  in  the  list  of  guests  at  some 
notable  function.  At  the  opening  of  free  libraries  and 
institutes  they  speak  with  a  dramatic  modulation  of  the 
voice,  and  descant,  with  many  grand  phrases  and  a  Greek 
quotation  or  two,  upon  the  future  of  literature,  not  for- 
getting to  have  type-written  copies  of  their  speech  ready 
to  hand  down  to  the  reporters  at  the  close. 

But  these  are  not  the  Bohemians  of  literary  London. 
A  man  who  is  a  Bohemian  at  heart  remains  ever  so,  no 
matter  what  success  may  come  to  him.  He  chafes  beneath 
the  trammels  of  society,  he  abhors  the  silk  hat  and  frock 
coat,  and  soon  longs  for  the  old  free  life  of  long  ago,  when 
his  jacket  was  threadbare,  his  stomach  empty,  and  his 
heart  was  light.  Rosmead  was  one  of  the  latter.  He 
only  accepted  these  invitations  because  Teddy  advised  him ; 
because  he  saw  that,  without  a  little  self-advertisement,  he 
must  remain  unknown. 

1  Trot  about  a  bit,  old  chap,'  the  artist  had  said  when 
he  consulted  him.  'You'll  get  known,  and  people  will 
buy  your  books  and  order  them  from  the  libraries.  It 
shows  that  you're  a  coming  man,  and  that  your  real  boom 
has  at  last  begun.  Buy  a  dress-suit  and  a  diamond  shirt- 
stud,  and  go  into  society  now  and  then.  It  will  do  you 
good,  and  you'll  pick  up  lots  of  local  colour  that  you  may 
use  later  on.  Keep  your  eye  to  the  main  chance,  my  dear 
fellow,  as  I  do.     Never  mind  what  Lena  says.' 

So  he  took  his  old  friend's  advice,  and,  while  slaving 
away  by  day  in  that  close,  stuffy  sub-editor's  den  in  his 


BOHEMIA  AND   BELGRAVIA  155 

ragged  office  coat,  often  unshaven  and  unkempt,  he  at 
night  appeared,  smart  and  spruce,  in  faultless  attire,  in 
West-end  drawing-rooms,  where  he  was  lionised  as  the 
latest  novelist,  and  where  gushing  women  took  him  into 
cosy-corners,  and  treated  him  to  their  inane  discourses 
upon  the  books  they  liked  best,  and  the  plays  which  had 
created  an  impression  upon  them. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

1  IN    THE    SWIM  ' 

Rosmead  had  already  written  four  books,  three  of  which 
had  been  distinct  successes,  when  one  day  he  received  a 
terrible  and  staggering  blow. 

His  publisher  had  failed. 

Such  intelligence  was  sufficient  to  crush  hope  from  the 
heart  of  any  man.  For  years  he  had  toiled,  struggled,  and 
striven,  and  now,  just  when  he  expected  substantial  cheques 
for  the  profits  on  his  books,  the  company  was  unable  to  dis- 
charge its  liabilities.  He  consulted  the  editor  of  a  literary 
journal,  a  kind-hearted  and  firm  friend,  who  was  a  barrister 
and  authority  on  all  matters  of  copyright,  and  from  him 
learned  that  his  position  was  even  graver  than  he  expected. 
His  agreements  with  these  publishers  had  been  for  half 
profits,  and  giving  them  the  exclusive  right  to  print  and 
publish  the  books  in  England,  therefore  the  company  had 
half  share  in  the  books,  and  the  latter  could  neither  be 
reprinted  nor  withdrawn  from  the  company. 

The  plain  truth  was  that  he  was  compelled  to  abandon 
all  his  previous  work  as  valueless. 

True,  he  had  established  a  reputation,  one  that  increased 
daily,  for  he  was  now  contributing  to  the  best  magazines 
in  England  and  America,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  with- 
out some  mention  being  made  of  him  or  his  work  in  one 
or  other  of  the  thousand  provincial  journals.  His  books 
were  sought  after  at  the  libraries,  gossiped   about  at  dinner- 


'IN   THE   SWIM'  157 

tables,  and  criticised  by  that  gang  of  superior  critics  which 
appears  to  centre  around  the  office  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 
For  the  past  year  he  had  anonymously  reviewed  his  fellow 
authors'  works  in  an  important  literary  journal,  and  was 
now  asked  to  sign  his  criticisms,  a  fact  which  showed  that 
he  had  at  length  obtained  a  foothold  in  literature.  He  had 
been  elected  a  member  of  the  Savage  upon  Teddy's  pro- 
posal, and  had  joined  a  fashionable  West-end  club,  where 
smart  society  gathered  in  the  private  theatre  on  Sunday 
evenings  to  listen  to  concerts   by  music-hall  artists. 

Yet  he  had  striven  in  vain.  All  was  to  no  purpose,  and 
with  Lena's  grumbling  and  words  of  derision  ever  in  his 
ears,  he  was  compelled  still  to  edit  the  day's  news  at  the 
Evening  Telegraph. 

Only  the  working  journalist,  the  man  shut  up  in  a 
close,  stuffy  room  through  the  hot  summer  days,  with  the 
whirr-click-click-click  of  half-a-dozen  tapes  eternally  in 
his  ears,  the  thousand  and  one  items  of  the  day's  news 
passing  through  his  mechanical  brain,  the  odour  of  printer's 
ink  and  damp  paper  ever  in  his  nostrils,  to-morrow's  work 
commencing  ere  to-day's  is  done  ;  only  the  man  whose  lot 
in  life  is  to  dole  out  the  world's  news  to  the  expectant 
public  six  times  daily  knows  the  rush,  monotony,  and 
terrible  brain-tear  of  life  within  the  office  of  a  London 
evening  newspaper. 

To  Rosmead,  the  weariness  of  life  in  London  through 
those  long,  breathless  August  days  grew  unendurable.  He 
longed,  irresponsible  wanderer  that  he  was,  to  get  awav  to 
peace  and  to  green  fields,  and  would  often  leave  his 
chambers  half-an-hour  earlier  in  the  morning  in  order  to 
stroll  about  Covent  Garden  market  and  sniff*  that  breath  of 
the  country  borne  in  by  the  flowers.  Even  the  smell  of  the 
vegetables  was  to  him  refreshing  in  that  wearv,  jaded,  de- 
pressed frame  of  mind,  with  the  dust  of  London  over  his  heart. 


158  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

With  the  failure  of  his  publishers  he  felt  much  inclined 
to  throw  up  the  sponge.  He  had  written  fiction  and  ob- 
tained a  fair  reputation,  but  his  monetary  gains  had  been 
paltry  indeed,  averaging  some  fifty  pounds  a  year.  He  had 
heard  of  a  literary  agent,  a  man  whose  respectability  and 
probity  stood  so  high  that  all  the  most  popular  novelists 
entrusted  to  him  the  whole  management  of  their  affairs. 
He  sold  their  work,  drew  up  their  agreements,  collected 
their  royalties,  arranged  for  the  securing  of  American 
copyrights,  and  acted  as  adviser  to  his  clients.  In  despera- 
tion Rosmead  sought  his  aid. 

He  found  a  set  of  handsome,  business-like  offices,  with 
clerks  and  typewriters,  and  was  ushered  into  a  small, 
rather  bare  waiting-room,  the  walls  of  which  were  embel- 
lished with  one  or  two  choice  engravings,  —  a  room  in 
which  many  an  expectant  author  has  waited  to  have  audi- 
ence with  Mr.  Howden,  the  King  of  Fiction ;  an  apart- 
ment which  the  majority  of  latter-day  novelists  —  and  of 
publishers,  for  the  matter  of  that  —  are  well  acquainted 
with.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was  shown  into  a  private 
room,  and  found  himself  in  presence  of  a  tall,  grey-bearded 
elderly  man,  of  refined,  courteous  manner,  who  spoke  low, 
and  listened  attentively  to  Rosmead's  story.  Around  this 
room  were  large  portraits  of  popular  authors,  signed  and 
framed,  souvenirs  from  his  clients,  for,  as  is  well-known  in 
literary  London,  Mr.  Howden,  by  acting  as  an  impartial 
go-between  between  author  and  publisher,  had  succeeded 
in  doubling,  trebling,  and  even  quadrupling  an  author's 
earnings.  In  pursuing  his  just  and  upright  course,  much 
hostile  criticism  had,  of  course,  been  directed  against  him 
by  minor  publishers,  who  were  jealous  that  the  author 
should  obtain  his  fair  share  of  profits  ;  but  respectable  and 
responsible  publishers  were  his  friends,  while  the  small  set 
grew  furious  at  the  simple  mention  of  his   name.     Not- 


'IN   THE   SWIM'  1 59 

withstanding  that,  through  the  past  decade  he,  with  his  son 
as  partner,  had  lived  down  criticism,  and  now  held  control 
of  the  whole  fiction  market.  Through  that  office  passed 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  manuscripts  of  well-known  writers  ; 
therefore  publishers,  when  they  wanted  a  book  by  a  certain 
author,  applied  to  Mr.  Howden  for  it.  Such  is  the  mode 
of  modern  literary  business. 

In  his  quiet,  pleasant  manner  the  confidential  agent 
gave  Rosmead  some  frank  and  sound  advice  as  to  future 
enterprises.  He  had,  he  said,  watched  his  visitor's  work, 
had  noticed  his  steady  progress,  and  concluded  by  ex- 
pressing his  readiness  to  act  on  his  behalf. 

c  You  have  already  established  the  groundwork  of  a 
reputation,  Mr.  Rosmead,'  the  courtly  agent  said.  c  And 
it  shall  be  my  very  best  endeavour  to  further  your  inter- 
ests, and  to  place  your  next  book  with  some  responsible 
firm  at  a  fair  royalty.  Of  course,  you  must  advance  by 
degrees,  but  you  are  not  an  amateur ;  the  excellency  of 
your  work  is  known,  therefore,  the  difficulties  of  disposing 
of  future  work  are  small.' 

1  I  am  still  engaged  in  journalism,  and  I'm  anxious  to 
leave  it,'  Rosmead  declared. 

1  Then  my  advice  to  you  is  remain  where  you  are,' 
answered  Mr.  Howden,  promptly.  '  Continue  for  the  pres- 
ent the  course  you  are  pursuing.  Then,  when  I  succeed 
in  making  contracts  ahead  for  you,  you  can  leave  London, 
live  in  the  country,  and  do  some  really  good  work.  Re- 
main  patient,  and  you   will   succeed.' 

With  these  words,  uttered  in  a  low,  refined  voice,  still 
ringing  in  his  ears,  Bertram  Rosmead  went  out  into  the 
bustling  Strand,  again  hopeful,  lighthearted,  and  eager. 
He  had  entered  in  despair,  fearing  that  he  was  not  of 
sufficient  importance  to  become  one  of  Mr.  Howden's 
clients,  but  had  left  full  of  renewed  courage  for  the  fierce 


160  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

strife  of  literary  life.  The  agent  of  the  greatest  novelists 
of  the  day  was  now  his  agent.  To  have  Mr.  Howden  to 
conduct  one's  affairs  was  hall-mark  of  one's  standing  among 
writers  of  contemporary  fiction. 

He  went  home  and  related  to  Lena  his  interview  with 
the  agent,  and  its  gratifying  result,  but  his  wife  only  ex- 
pressed disbelief  in  all  agents,  and  smiled  contemptuously. 

c  You're  anxious  to  leave  London,  and  to  live  in  the 
country,'  she  said.  '  Well,  when  you  do  so,  I  shall  remain 
here.  I  had  quite  enough  of  Hounslow.  I'll  never  be 
buried  alive   again.' 

'  Very  well,'  he  sighed. 

c  Besides,'  she  added,  'if  you  leave  London,  you  won't 
be  able  to  go  to  those  "  At  homes  "  you  love  so  much.  You 
go  there  only  to  flirt  with  a  lot  of  women  who  fancy  you're 
a  great  genius.  You're  getting  to  be  a  swell  with  two- 
pence in  your  pocket.' 

4  Surely  there's  no  occasion  to  insult  me,  Lena,'  he 
answered,  with  some  asperity.  c  I  know  well  that  you 
care  nothing  for  my  interests,  but  even  in  face  of  that  I 
shall  continue  to  strive.  In  the  past  you've  discouraged 
me  with  all  your  cruel,  unsympathetic  words,  but  I  am, 
nevertheless,  determined  to  take  Howden's  advice.  The 
failure  of  my  publishers  is  a  blow  indeed,  but  I'll  not  yet 
despair.  I'll  commence  once  again,  with  hope  for  better 
fortune.' 

And  Lena  laughed,  a  dry,  contemptuous  laugh,  as  she 
always  did  when  unable  to  reply  to  his  sound  arguments. 

From  that  day  he  re-commenced  the  struggle  as  eagerly 
as  he  had  begun  it,  caring  nothing  for  the  sneers  in  the 
office  of  the  Evening  Telegraph,  or  for  his  wife's  constant 
ill-will   and  penchant   for   spirits. 

In  most  other  men,  all  sense  of  refinement  would  have 
been   dulled    by   Lena's  eternal   ill-temper,   her  ignorance, 


'IN   THE  SWIM'  161 

and  her  fondness  for  everything  low  and  vulgar  ;  but  he 
fought  against  it,  schooling  himself  to  regard  her  with 
apathy,  and  to  take  no  heed  of  her  reproaches,  her  scorn, 
or  her  insults.  His  life  was  very  unhappy  and  lonely, 
for  with  such  a  wife  he  could  make  no  friends,  and  could 
invite  no  one  to  his  home.  Yet  he  found  now,  as  he  had 
done  even  in  the  early  days  of  his  marriage,  solace  in  his 
work  and  comfort  in  his  own  deep  thoughts. 

Many  have  said  that  the  wild  rush  of  journalistic  life 
unfits  the  man  who  desires  to  become  a  novelist,  as  it 
destroys  all  powers  of  originality.  On  the  contrary,  how- 
ever, Rosmead,  sitting  in  his  close,  noisy  room,  found 
about  him  much  that  was  stimulating  and  worth  studying, 
much  that  would  be  of  use  to  him  in  the  future.  Some 
characters  in  London  journalism  of  to-day  are  distinctly 
unique,  and  if  Dickens  were  still  alive,  would  certainly  be 
handed  down  to  posterity.  For  example,  there  is  not  a 
pressman  in  Fleet  Street  who  is  not  acquainted  with  that 
round,  merry-faced,  fair-bearded,  comfortably-built  man 
known  as  l  Bishop  '  Crook.  The  reason  for  this  ecclesi- 
astical appellation  is  because  Mr.  Crook's  speciality  is  the 
supply  of  church  news  to  all  and  sundry  of  the  London 
papers,  and  be  it  a  consecration,  a  diocesan  squabble,  or  a 
Church  Congress,  Mr.  Crook  contracts  with  every  sub- 
editor in  London  to  supply  a  condensed  or  full  report,  as 
ordered.  Although  he  writes  learnedly  upon  ecclesiastical 
matters,  hob-nobs  with  bishops,  and  spends  many  hours  in 
the  cosy  libraries  of  deans,  canons,  and  other  notabilities 
of  the  Church,  he  is  the  reverse  of  sanctimonious.  In 
Fleet  Street  he  freely  expresses  his  opinions  in  rather 
forcible  language  on  the  Church  in  general,  and  on  bishops 
in  particular. 

Indeed,  on  one   occasion,   when   he   called   to    interview 
the  late  Archbishop  of  Canterbury   upon   some   important 

11 


1 62  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

subject,  the  good-humoured  primate,  having  heard  of  Mr. 
Crook's  contempt  for  all  bishops,  said  : 

c  How  is  it,  Mr.  Crook,  that,  although  you  are  so  sym- 
pathetic in  your  writings,  you  nevertheless  hold  such  a  bad 
opinion  of  us  ? ' 

<•  Well,  m'lord,'  answered  the  ever-ready  Crook,  c  the 
fact  is,  that  if  I  call  upon  a  dean,  a  canon,  or  any  of  the 
smaller  fry,  I  generally  get  a  very  appreciable  glass  of  old 
port.  But  when  I  call  upon  a  bishop  or  an  archbishop, 
refreshment  never  makes  an  appearance.  Men  from  Fleet 
Street  have  thirsty  souls.' 

The  archbishop  laughed. 

c  Fleet  Street  and  the  Church  are  like  oil  and  water  — 
eh  ?  '  he  observed,  at  the  same  moment  touching  the  bell, 
a  summons  which  was  instantly  answered  by  the  butler. 

c  In  future,'  said  his  lordship,  addressing  the  man,  '  when- 
ever Mr.  Crook  calls,  see  that  he  has  a  glass  of  the  best 
port  —  the  very  best,  remember.' 

c  Yes,  m'lord,'  answered  the  servant,  and  withdrew. 

c  H'm,'  grunted  Crook,  in  his  beard,  as  was  his  habit, 
when  anything  gave  him  satisfaction. 

c  You  see,  Crook,'  observed  his  lordship,  c  even  arch- 
bishops aren't  such  bad  fellows,  after  all,  are  they  ?  ' 

And  ever  after  that,  even  to  this  day,  it  is  a  joke  against 
the  merry  purveyor  of  ecclesiastical  intelligence,  whenever 
he  has  called  at  the  c  Cheshire  Cheese,'  the  c  Rainbow,' 
1  Short's,'  the  Ludgate-station  bar,  the  '  Romano's,'  the 
'Marble  Halls,'  or  any  of  those  houses  of  refreshment 
where  journalists  most  do  congregate,  that  he  has  l  called 
to  see  the  Archbishop.' 

Another  man  with  whom  Rosmead  became  intimately 
acquainted  was  old  Mr.  Wyatt,  the  reporter  at  the  Central 
Criminal  Court,  a  man  who,  although  now  dead,  with  his 
son   reigning   in   his   stead,  was   known   to   every   London 


'IN   THE    SWIM'  163 

journalist  on  account  of  his  extraordinary  eccentricities. 
He  was  nearly  seventy,  rather  deaf,  and  much  addicted  to 
the  snuff  habit.  Since  the  year  of  grace  1830  he  had  sat 
in  his  small  box,  reporting  criminal  cases  for  all  the 
London  papers,  and  was  the  special  representative  of  the 
Press  admitted  to  all  executions  in  Newgate.  Having 
known  the  judges  in  the  days  when  thev  practised  as 
young  barristers  in  that  court,  and  having  watched  the 
career  of  every  member  of  the  bar  who  frequented  the 
Old   Bailev,  he  was   allowed   considerable   licence. 

His  worst  habits,  however,  were  those  of  taking  snuff, 
causing  frequent  explosions  in  court,  and  of  speaking  in 
very  loud  tones  whatever  he  had  to  say.  For  instance,  if 
the  judge  was  solemnly  pronouncing  sentence  upon  a  mur- 
derer, a  loud  voice  would  arise  in  court  with  the  words  — 

1  Now  then,  look  sharp,  bov,  or  vou  won't  catch  this 
edition  of  the  Pall  Mall.  Take  a  'bus.  It'll  only  cost  a 
pennv,   and   this   murder's   worth   it.' 

His  lordship,  however,  would  only  glance  at  him 
severely,  and  even  the  usher  had  orders  not  to  cry  him 
down.  For  years  thev  had  all  tried  to  make  him  speak 
lower,  but  to  no  avail,  so  the  court  was  very  often  convulsed 
by  old  Wyatt's  quaint  and  pointed  remarks  to  him- 
self. Sometimes,  when  the  court  was  breathless  in  expec- 
tancy, he  would  observe  aloud  :  c  I  wonder  when  we're 
going  to  have  lunch  ? '  Or  he  would  bend  over  to  a  col- 
league, and  sav,  c  I  could  do  with  a  cold  gin,  couldn't 
vou  ?  '  Whereat  bar  and  public  would  be  convulsed  with 
laughter,  and  his  lordship  had  considerable  difficulty  in 
preserving  his  own  gravity. 

He  was  very  fond,  too,  of  advising  the  judge  what 
sentence  he  should  pass,  impatiently  ejaculating  such  words 
as,  '  Oh  !  give  him  five  years,'  c  Six  months  '11  be  a  lesson,' 
or  c  First  Offenders  Act.'     Indeed  so  well  versed  was  he  in 


1 64  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

criminal  law,  and  such  a  long  experience  had  he  of  the  ways 
of  the  Recorder,  that  many  times  he  wrote  down  the 
sentence,  and  finished  his  report,  long  before  sentence  had 
been  pronounced.  He  was  one  of  the  most  notable  char- 
acters in  journalism,  but,  like  others,  he  has  now  passed 
away,  although  his  memory  will  linger  long  in  every  news- 
paper office,  both  for  his  execrable  handwriting,  and  for  his 
personal  eccentricities. 

Again,  among  the  wreckage  of  journalism,  that  sham- 
bling, shabby  brigade  whom  drink,  illness,  or  ill-fortune  have 
placed  beyond  the  pale,  and  who  earn  a  precarious  liveli- 
hood as  4  liners,'  Rosmead  found  much  to  study.  Drink 
was  the  cause  of  the  degradation  and  poverty  of  the  major- 
ity. Many  who  had  occupied  good  positions  on  first-class 
papers  were  now  only  too  glad  to  supply  a  paragraph  of  a 
street  accident  for  a  shilling,  while  others  scoured  London 
hourly  to  seek  something  worth  writing  about.  One  man, 
a  good-hearted  fellow,  who,  although  he  dressed  shabbily, 
and  was  down  at  heel,  yet  expended  all  his  money  upon  his 
wife  and  children,  made  a  speciality  of  supplying  a  para- 
graph daily  to  all  the  evening  papers  descriptive  of  the 
weather,  and  actually  made  a  living  out  of  it,  while  the 
speciality  of  another  was  the  reporting  of  aristocratic  mar- 
riages, at  the  rate  of  half-a-crown  a  wedding.  He  was 
known  as  c  Orange  Blossoms,'  on  account  of  his  nose, 
which,  ruddy  and  pimply,  bore  outward  and  visible  signs  of 
frequent  libations  of  hot  rum. 

Amid  these  surroundings,  in  a  strange  little  world  utterly 
unknown  to  the  London  public,  Bertram  Rosmead  lived 
and  worked,  ever  observant,  ever  gauging  the  character  of 
these  men  around  him,  mechanically  performing  his  duties, 
but  always  with  the  hope  that  ere  long  he  might  leave  that 
wild  whirl  of  life  and  bustle,  and  be  free  to  devote  his 
time  to  the   profession   he   loved. 


'IN   THE   SWIM'  165 

As  autumn  again  gave  place  to  winter,  he  found  invita- 
tions still  increasing,  one  which  pleased  him  most  being 
a  plain  correspondence-card  with  address  embossed  in 
crimson,  whereon   was  written  — 

c  Mrs.  St.  Barbe  at  home.  Thursday,  November  8, 
9.30    P.M.' 

Of  all  the  cards  he  had  received,  even  though  some  of 
his  hostesses  bore  titles,  none  gave  him  such  complete  satis- 
faction as  this.  Literarv  London  knows  well  the  monthly 
4  At  homes'  given  in  winter  by  that  genial  traveller,  novelist, 
and  critic,  Francis  St.  Barbe,  and  how  in  his  flat  at  Ken- 
sington one  meets  evervbody  in  literature  who  is  anybody. 
Indeed,  every  person  bidden  to  St.  Barbe's  has  c  done  some- 
thing,' is  a  great  writer,  a  great  traveller,  a  great  scientist, 
a  great  actress,  or  a  great  critic.  Therefore,  to  receive  a 
card  was  in  itself  a  distinction.  For  over  a  year  he  had 
been  a  fellow-contributor  with  St.  Barbe  to  the  literary 
journal  for  which  he  reviewed,  and  although  they  had  met 
several    times,    he    had    received    no    invitation   until   that 

dav- 

Rosmead  went,  and  as  he  closed  the  door  of  his  chambers, 
a  half-drunken  curse  from  Lena's  lips  was  hurled  after  him. 
She  had  acquired  the  habit  of  drinking  whiskey  at  all  hours 
of  the  dav,  and  often  by  seven  or  eight  in  the  evening  was 
in  a  maudlin  condition.  In  reply  to  her  demand  that  he 
should  take  her  to  a  music-hall,  he  had  refused,  pointing  out 
how  essential  it  was  that  he  should  go  to  the  St.  Barbes', 
whereupon  she  had  flown  into  a  rage,  cursed  him  and  his 
work,  using  all  the  foul  expressions  picked  up  in  the  theatre 
dressing-room.  Night  after  night,  in  order  to  keep  her 
quiet  and  obtain  rest  himself,  he  had  taken  her  to  music-hall 
after  music-hall,  sitting  out  the  performances,  though  bored 
to  death  ;  but  even  that  had  not  satisfied  her.  Anything 
which  might  advance  him  she  hated.      Madly  jealous  of  any 


1 66  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

attention  shown  him  by  his  hostesses,  she  grew  furious 
whenever  he  accepted  an  invitation,  and  poured  forth  upon 
him  torrents  of  abuse,  interspersed  with  the  vilest  of  curses 
upon  his  work  and  all  that  concerned  him. 

With  a  sigh,  he  walked  quickly  to  the  Temple  Station, 
and  took  train  to  Addison  Road,  half-an-hour  later  enter- 
ing the  St.  Barbes'  flat.  So  crowded  was  it,  even  to  the 
very  door,  by  a  well-dressed,  distinguished  throng,  that  it 
was  with  considerable  difficulty  he  discovered  his  host. 
None  of  the  rooms  were  large,  but  in  all  were  books, 
mostly  review-copies,  in  rows  upon  rows,  signed  portraits 
of  celebrities,  and  curios  of  all  sorts  ;  while  the  gay,  chat- 
tering crowd  included  nearly  every  writer  of  note  at  that 
moment  in  London.  As  he  gazed  around,  he  recognised 
the  men  and  women  about  him  by  their  portraits  in  illus- 
trated papers  and  shop  windows,  for  here  once  every  month 
the  literary  set  assembled  to  talk  shop  and  scandal,  to  sip 
claret-cup,  eat  sandwiches,  and  depart  at  two  or  three  in  the 
morning.  It  was  always  a  happy  evening,  for  St.  Barbe 
was  a  particularly  good  host,  introduced  everybody,  and  was 
never  tired  of  lending  a  helping  hand  to  young  authors 
who  had  distinguished  themselves.  Indeed,  to  know  St. 
Barbe  was  to  have  a  friend,  for  he  was  on  good  terms  with 
everybody. 

Among  those  who  crowded  the  flat,  so  that  there  was 
scarcely  breathing  space,  were  men  and  women  whose 
names  were  household  words  wherever  the  English  tongue 
was  spoken  :  the  latest  traveller,  a  sallow  man,  who  had 
just  returned  from  Thibet,  the  latest  artist,  and  the  latest 
scientist  ;  while  after  midnight  there  came  the  latest  actor 
and  the  most  renowned  actresses,  who  brought  with  them 
the  latest  and  most  admired  of  the  younger  debutantes.  The 
crowd  was  a  very  mixed  one,  but  there  was  not  a  person 
there  who  was  not  interesting.      St.  Barbe  made  it  a  rule  to 


<  IN   THE    SWIM'  167 

exclude  outsiders,  even  though  they  might  be  wives  of  mil- 
lionaires. No  London  hostess  could  gather  such  a  distin- 
guished crowd  as  he  gathered  about  him. 

Rosmead  was  cordially  greeted  by  his  host,  but  so  great 
was  the  chatter  and  loud  the  laughter,  that  he  could  scarcely 
make  himself  heard,  and  a  moment  later  found  himself  in- 
troduced to  a  dark-haired,  full-bearded  man,  of  almost 
gigantic  stature,  a  renowned  Scotch  novelist,  whose  name 
was  at  that  moment  on  everybody's  lips.  The  pair  com- 
menced to  chat,  the  good-humoured  Scotchman  observing 
that  he  had  read  and  admired  Rosmead's  last  book,  a  fact 
which  to  Bertram  was  exceedingly  gratifying  ;  then  to- 
gether they  sought  a  place  against  the  wall  where  they  could 
lean  and  talk. 

c  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been  here,'  the  great  writer 
remarked  presently,  with  a  strong  Scotch  accent,  as  he 
gazed  around  at  the  throng  of  well-dressed  women  and 
rather  spruce-looking  men,  for  those  who  are  on  St.  Barbe's 
visiting  list  affect  smartness  of  attire  rather  than  cultivate 
its  artistic  negligence.  In  the  mode  of  wearing  their  hair 
alone  were  thev  outwardly  distinguishable  from  any  other 
crowd   in   any  other  London  drawing-room. 

c  It's  also  my  first  visit,'  Bertram  answered. 

'Then  until  to-night,'  observed  the  leader  of  the  so-called 
4  kailyard  school,'  '  we  were  among  the  great  unknown.' 

1 1  was,  and  still  am,'  said  Bertram.  c  You,  however, 
have  a  reputation  wider,  perhaps,  than  anyone  in  this 
room.' 

c  Well,'  said  the  novelist,  laughing  merrily,  '  I  may  be 
known  here  and  there,  but  I'm  not  much  the  better  for  it, 
I'm  afraid.  Reputation  is  but  a  bitter  fruit  of  labour,  for 
it  only  makes  a  man  vain,  discontented,  and  egotistical/ 

At  that  instant  a  woman,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an 
elderly,  rather  distinguished-looking,  thin-faced,  grey-haired 


168  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

man,  brushed  past  Bertram,  her  perfumed  chiffons  almost 
touching  his  face,  and  in  doing  so,  she  gazed  for  an  instant 
into  his  face. 

For  one  brief  moment  their  eyes  met,  and  Bertram 
Rosmead  started  in  amazement.  Next  second  he  stood 
rigid,   speechless,  petrified. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    SECRET    OF    A    DAY 

For  a  single  instant  only  she  paused,  gazing  at  Rosmead 
with  a  startled,  half-fearful  look  in  her  luminous  eyes,  then 
passed  on,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  companion.  From 
the  crown  of  her  well-dressed  hair,  with  its  diamond-edged 
comb,  to  the  tip  of  her  pointed  grey  suede  shoe  she  was 
graceful  and  chic,  her  perfect  figure  well  set  off  by  her  gown 
of  black  silk  trimmed  with  silver,  her  rounded  arms  and 
neck  showing  white  as  alabaster. 

c  Pretty  woman,  that  —  very  pretty,'  remarked  the  Scotch 
novelist,  observing  the  look  of  recognition  she  had  given 
his  companion.     c  Do  you  know  who  she  is  ? ' 

Rosmead  held  his  breath,  but  in  a  moment  recovered  his 
self-possession. 

c  No,'  he  answered,  somewhat  harshly.  c  But  I  know 
who  she  was.' 

'Who  she  was!'  he  exclaimed.  'That  sounds  inter- 
esting.    Who  was  she  ? ' 

'  I  knew  her  in  Paris,'  Rosmead  answered.  '  Her  name 
is  Fosca  Farini,'  and  as  he  uttered  those  words,  his  eyes 
followed  her  graceful  figure,  and  he  saw  her  pass  into  the 
small  inner  room,  which,  leading  from  the  drawing-room, 
was  decorated   as   a   Moorish   lounge. 

1  How  smart  she  is  !  '  repeated  the  novelist.  •  Devilish 
pretty  woman.     French,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  No,  Italian.' 


170  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

Then  at  that  moment  Teddy  O'Donovan,  a  well-known 
attendant  at  these  gatherings,  approached,  and  commenced 
to  chat.  He  had  painted  a  portrait  of  the  Scotch  novelist, 
which  had  been  hung,  therefore  they  were  not  strangers, 
and  the  conversation  very  soon  turned  upon  pictures. 

c  Some  day,'  the  novelist  said, '  I  hope  my  publishers  will 
give  you  one  of  my  editions  de  luxe  to  illustrate.' 

4  I  shall  be  delighted  '  the  artist  answered.  '  Let  them 
give  me  plenty  of  time,  for  I'm  always  full  up  six  months 
in  advance,  as  you  know.  But  I'll  try  and  do  some  good 
pictures  for  you.' 

Then,  turning  to  Rosmead,  he  exclaimed  — 

'  Who  do  you  think  is  here  ?     You'll  never  guess/ 

c  I  know  already,'  Bertram  replied,  in  a  strange,  hard 
tone.     '  She  is  here.' 

'  And  the  Marquis,'  added  the  artist. 

'  The  Marquis  !  '   his  friend  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

c  Yes.  They're  both  here.  How  they  came  to  be 
invited,  or  where  they've  sprung  from,  Heaven  alone 
knows  ;  but  it's  a  solemn  fact.  And  after  all  this  time, 
too  !      Have  you  seen  her  ? ' 

c  She's  in  there,'  answered  Bertram,  indicating  the  Moor- 
ish room,  and  during  this  discourse  they  became  separated 
from  the  Scotch  novelist  by  the  chattering  throng. 

'  Well,  I  never  thought  either  of  us  would  meet  her 
again,'  Teddy  said.  'It's  most  extraordinary.  She  looks 
in  pretty  easy  circumstances,  too.  Married,  perhaps,  old 
chap,  and  settled  down  after  her  little  escapade.  Girls 
often  do.' 

'  Perhaps,'  his  old  friend  acquiesced,  his  eyes  still  upon 
the  door,  where  the  crowd  passed  and  re-passed. 

c  Go  in  and  speak  to  her.  It'll  do  no  harm.  She 
treated  you  beastly  shabbily ;  but  let  bygones  be  bygones. 
There's  Jimmy  Slade,  the  dramatic  critic,  over  there,  and  I 


THE   SECRET   OF   A   DAY  i7I 

want  to  get  a  couple  of  stalls  for  the  Savoy  from  him.  So 
tra-la-la,'  and  a  moment  later  the  irrepressible  painter  had 
vanished  among  the  gay,  laughing  crowd. 

Bertram  stood  for  a  moment  in  hesitation,  still  pressed 
against  the  wall  by  the  throng,  which  seemed  each  moment 
to  increase,  till  the  rooms  were  crowded  to  suffocation,  and 
starched  collars  sank  as  damp  rags.  He  still  wondered 
which  was  the  best  course  to  pursue.  Quickly,  however, 
he  decided  to  seek  her,  and  demand  an  explanation  of  that 
day,  long  past,  when  she  left  him,  and  sent  that  cruel 
letter  which  had  wrecked  his  life.  With  that  object  he 
went  on,  pressed   forward  by  those  behind. 

As  he  passed  the  door  and  entered  the  Moorish  room, 
he  saw,  straight  before  him,  a  lounge  against  the  wall,  with 
a  canopy  of  yellow  silk  above  it,  a  covering  which  shut  out 
the  light  of  the  shaded  arabesque  hanging  lamps,  rendering 
it  almost  dark  within.  Alone  in  the  deep  shadow  sat 
Fosca,  a   striking   figure  in   black   and  silver. 

She  was  awaiting  him.  Her  face  was  white  in  eagerness 
and  expectancy;  her  dark  eyes  seemed  to  him  to  burn  with 
all  the  fire  of  her  old  love  of  long  ago. 

He  approached,  simply  uttering  her  name  in  a  hoarse, 
low  voice  — 

c  Fosca  !  ' 

He  tried  to  utter  some  word  of  welcome,  but  was 
tongue-tied.  In  that  half-darkness  she  sat  there,  an  almost 
weirdly  handsome  figure,  the  typical  heroine  of  his  last 
romance,  beautiful  of  feature,  graceful  in  every  line.  In  her 
black  hair  the  diamond  comb  alone  caught  the  light,  and 
glowed   with  a  thousand   iridescent   fires. 

'Bertram!  At  last!'  she  exclaimed  in  French,  in  a 
low  voice,  her  white  breast  heaving  and  falling  quickly 
beneath  its  lace.  c  I  —  I  feared  lest  you  would  not  come 
to  me  —  that  you  still  hated  me.' 


i/2  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

c  And  why  should  I  come  ? '  he  inquired,  finding  tongue 
at  last,  as  he  sank  on  the  soft  divan  beside  her.  '  The  love 
that  once  existed  between  us  is  long  ago  dead.  Is  it  not 
best  that  it  should  be  buried  once  and  for  ever  ? ' 

She  glanced  at  him  for  a  single  instant,  and  even  in  that 
half  light  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes. 

I  Yours  is  not  an  enthusiastic  welcome,'  she  said  sadly, 
in  a  harsh  voice,  half  choked  by  emotion. 

I I  do  not  welcome  you,'  he  answered  coldly.  '  We  have 
met  only  by  accident,  and  this  encounter  is  painful.' 

4  If  to  you,'  she  said,  '  then  the  more  so  to  me.  You  no 
doubt  believe  that  in  the  years  that  have  passed  since  those 
old  days  at  the  Louvre  I  have  forgotten.  But  I  tell  you, 
Bertram,  I  have  ever  remembered  you.  I  have  heard  long 
ago  of  your  success  as  a  novelist,  but  I  feared  to  write  to 
you  or  see  you,  because ' 

c  Because,'  he  repeated,  remembering  the  pure  and  affec- 
tionate intercourse  once  existing  between  them,  '  because 
you  treated  me  so  cruelly.  Well,  what  of  your  lover  ? '  he 
asked,  growing  excited. 

1  My  lover  ? '   she  echoed,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

c  The  man  in  whose  company  you  left  Paris,'  he  said,  in 
a  tone  of  intense  bitterness.  l  The  man  who  posed  as  my 
friend,  yet  was  my  enemy.' 

1  Ah  !  you  mean  Jean,'  she  cried.  l  Of  course.  I  see 
it  now.  You  believe  that  I  actually  left  Paris  with  him  ; 
that  I  had  fallen  so  low  as  to  deceive  you  like  that.  Yes, 
yes,  I  made  a  fatal  mistake  in  writing  that  heartless,  foolish 
letter.  You  will  never  believe  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  did 
not  leave  Paris  with  Jean  ;  that,  being  forced  to  fly  from 
Paris,  I  made  that  excuse  to  you  in  order  that  you,  who 
loved  me  so  well,  should  believe  me  worthless  and  forget. 
No.      You  cannot  believe  me,  Bertram,  I  know.' 

He  looked  at  her  incredulously.     The  hum  and  laughter 


THE   SECRET   OF   A   DAY  i;3 

of  many  voices  filled  his  ears,  but  half  hidden  there  as  he 
was,  no  one  could  see  him  distinctly. 

c  You  wish  me  to  believe  this  ?  '  he  asked.  '  To  believe 
that  you  actually  wrote  that  letter  without  loving  Jean,  and 
without  any  intention  of  leaving  Paris  with  him  ?  ' 

'  I  ask  you  to  still  trust  me,  Bertram,'  she  said  in  deep 
earnestness,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  with  unwavering  glance. 
1  I  have  spoken  the  truth.' 

'  Impossible,'  he  exclaimed  impatiently.  '  It  is  useless  to 
seek  to  excuse  yourself  in  this  manner.' 

I  You  accompanied  Jean  to  the  station,'  she  observed.  c  I 
was  not  there.' 

c  You  might  have  been  in  another  carriage,  or  have  left  by 
another  train,'  he  retorted  quickly,  for  he  was  angry  that  she 
should  even  now  seek  to  deceive  him  in  this  lame  manner. 

She  sighed  deeply. 

I I  had  dreaded  this  always,'  she  exclaimed,  shuddering 
slightly.  ' 1  felt  certain  that  you  could  never  accept  my 
explanation.' 

'  But  you  do  not  explain,'  he  declared.  'You  do  not  tell 
me  why  you  were  compelled  to  leave  Paris.' 

c  No,'  she  replied,  after  a  second's  hesitation.  c  That's 
impossible.' 

c  Why  ? '  he  inquired,  surprised  at  her  sudden  change  of 
manner,  for  in  that  moment  she  had  grown  strangely  pallid 
and  haggard,  as  if  striving  to  hide  from  him  some  terrible, 
ever-oppressing  secret  within  her  heart. 

'  The  reason  why  I  left  Paris  is  known  only  to  myself,' 
she  faltered. 

'And  you  decline  to  tell  me  ? '  he  remarked. 

'  It  is  impossible  to  explain,'  she  answered  quickly,  her 
face  blanched,  her  eyes  shining  upon  him  with  that  strange 
inner  love-light  he  so  well  remembered.  Years  had  not 
dimmed  his  memory  of  the  pink  glow  of  those  calm  sum- 


174  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

mer  evenings  when  they  strolled  together  in  the  Tuileries 
Gardens,  or  of  those  sunny  afternoons  in  the  Bois,  when 
they  sat  together  in  peaceful  solitude  and  indulged  in  the 
pleasant  day-dreams  of  youth.  She  was  more  beautiful  now 
than  then,  more  chic,  more  refined,  more  graceful.  In  that 
instant,  as  their  eyes  met,  the  truth  was  forced  upon  him 
that  he  still  loved  her.  But  reflecting  upon  the  lameness  of 
her  excuse,  and  of  the  strangeness  of  her  secret,  he  was 
filled    with  doubt. 

c  If  you  will  not  tell  me  the  truth,'  he  said  gravely,  c  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  believe  you.  I  have  still  your  letter 
in  which  you  renounce  your  love  for  me,  and  tell  me  that 
you  have  left  Paris  with  Jean.  The  truth  was,'  he  added, 
with  intense  bitterness,  '  that  you  were  aware  I  had  no 
money,  while  Jean  was  rich  and  able  to  provide  you  with 
luxuries.  Life  at  the  Louvre  was  irksome  —  you  told  me 
so  hundreds  of  times — and  seeing  in  him  a  mode  of  quit- 
ting it,  you  did  so.  It  is  the  same  always.  Women  love 
for  money/ 

c  No,'  she  protested  fiercely.  '  I  do  not  love  for  money. 
I  should  still  have  loved  you,  Bertram,  had  you  been  in 
rags.  I  own  that  my  actions  were  mysterious,  that  the 
letter  I  wrote  you  was  sufficient  in  itself  to  cause  you  to 
hate  me  ;  but  could  you  know  the  whole  of  the  true  facts, 
you  would  never  utter  those  words  —  words  which  rend 
my  heart.' 

c  Why  are  you  not  frank  ?  '  he  inquired  reproachfully. 
c  Surely  there  is  no  secret  of  your  past  that  I  must  not 
know  ?  ' 

c  Yes,'  she  answered,  in  a  low,  strained  voice,  '  there  is  a 
secret  —  one  which  I  must  still  keep  from  everyone,  even 
from  you.  I  left  Paris  —  I  was  forced  to  leave  by  a  strange 
combination  of  circumstances ;  but  I  swear  that  I  went 
alone,  that  from  the  moment  when  you  and  I  were  together 


THE   SECRET   OF   A   DAY  175 

in  the  studio  the  last  time,  I  have  never,  until  this  instant, 
met  Jean  Potin.  I  swear  that,'  and  she  paused,  looking 
him  full  in  the  face.  c  I  swear  on  the  tomb  of  my  dead 
mother  that  I  have  ever  loved  you,  Bertram,  and  have 
thought  of  no  other  man.' 

c  And  you  ask  me  to  believe  all  this  ? '  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  smile  of  undisguised  cynicism.  '  Even  with  your 
letter  still  preserved  ?  ' 

c  Yes,'  she  answered  simply.  '  I  ask  you  to  believe  me, 
because  I  tell  you  the  truth.' 

c  Yet  you  conceal  from  me  your  motive  ?  ' 

1  I  must,'  she  answered.  c  It  is  imperative.  Will  you 
never  believe  me  ? ' 

He  hesitated.      His  mind  was  overshadowed  by  doubt. 

c  I  cannot  believe  you,  Fosca,'  he  replied  at  last,  drawing 
a  deep  breath. 

Again  she  sighed.  The  tears  standing  in  her  eyes 
showed  how  deeply  in  earnest  she  was,  how  great  was  the 
tumult  of  emotion  within  her.  In  that  brief  hour  all  his 
old  passion  for  her  had  returned.  He  compared  his  peev- 
ish, drunken,  ignorant  wife  with  her,  and  the  comparison 
was  odious.  Yet  her  explanation  was  insufficient  to  satisfy 
him.  She  was  hiding  from  him  some  secret  which,  in 
order  to  place  credence  in  her  story,  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  know.  Thoughts  such  as  these  surged  through  his 
brain,  and  he  felt  himself  wavering.  Suddenly,  from  the 
depths  of  his  being,  he  felt  a  delicious  freshness  arise,  like 
the  vague  advent  of  some  new   faith,  and   his  hand  sought 

hers. 

At  that  instant,  however,  their  host  came  along,  and  pok- 
ing his  head  beneath  the  canopy,  cried  cheerily  — 

1  Ah,  mademoiselle  !      I've  been   hunting  everywhere  for 

you and  for  you,  too,  Rosmead.      I   want   to   introduce 

you  to  Monckton,  who  is  one  of  our  fellow-reviewers  —  a 


176  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

man  you  ought  to  know,  and  a  great  admirer  of  your 
books.  Wait  a  moment,'  and  that  indefatigable  centre  of 
this  London  literary  circle  carried  off  Fosca,  ere  he  could 
utter  a  word. 

But  a  few  moments  later  his  host  returned  and  took 
him  to  where  Monckton,  the  well-known  reviewer,  was 
standing. 

Everybody  in  that  room  knew  Monckton,  the  thin-faced 
young  man  with  fair  hair  which,  although  it  bore  painful 
traces  of  having  been  waved  artificially,  was  the  special 
admiration  of  ladies.  He  was  clean-shaven,  narrow-jawed, 
with  a  pair  of  fine  eves  that  any  woman  might  have  envied, 
and  a  face  so  peculiarly  effeminate  that  one  of  his  witty 
enemies,  whose  book  he  had  criticised  adversely,  had  once 
referred  to  him  as  l  the  young  man  whom  the  Creator  had 
intended  as  a  lady's  maid.'  He  was  not  a  brilliant  man  bv 
any  means,  but  that  little  circle  of  l  boomers,'  the  dozen  or 
so  friends  who  push  each  other  into  notoriety  by  means  of 
advertisement,  had  admitted  him  to  their  set  a  year  ago,  and 
now  his  name  was  known  throughout  the  length  and  the 
breadth  of  the  land.  Indeed,  with  his  striking  personality, 
his  affected  manners,  and  his  drawling  speech,  he  was  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  literary  product  of  the  present  age  ;  a  man 
who,  by  writing  a  little  indifferent  poetrv  and  criticising 
other  people's  work  with  a  profound  scholarly  air,  had 
forced  people  to  believe  in  his  capabilities.  True,  he  had 
published  a  book  or  two  of  lyrics  in  the  manner  of  most 
spring  poets,  but  they  had  only  been  remarkable  for  the 
extraordinary  merit  which  his  friends  alone  discovered  in 
them.  Whenever  he  published  a  book,  the  reviews  were 
more  laudator)'  than  those  of  a  collection  by  the  Laureate, 
and  whenever  he  spoke  at  public  dinners,  which  was  pretty 
frequently,  the  morning  papers  would  invariably  appear  with 
the  head-line   c  Mr.  Monckton  on  Poetry,'  as  if  he  were  a 


THE   SECRET   OF   A   DAY  177 

recognised  authority.  He  was  a  shining  light,  too,  of  a 
club  which  his  friends  had  started  for  mutual  admiration, 
and  for  the  purposes  of  advertisement,  a  club  called  after 
an  Oriental  poet  of  the  past,  whose  name,  being  almost 
unpronounceable,  impressed  the  ignorant  public.  This  se- 
lect coterie  of  log-rollers,  who  dined  once  or  twice  a  year, 
and  heralded  their  dinners  by  many  preliminary  puff  para- 
graphs, always  made  a  point  of  inviting  important  editors, 
because  the  latter  would  c  boom  '  them  in  return  for  their 
invitation  to  the  seven-and-sixpenny  dinner. 

A  strange  little  world  is  Literary  London.  How  little 
the  public  know  of  it,  notwithstanding  the  c  Literary  gossip  ' 
of  every  newspaper. 

The  Sette  of  Odd  Volumes,  the  Cemented  Bricks,  the 
Argonauts,  and  the  New  Vagabonds  are  all  similar  clubs, 
but  are  more  catholic  in  membership,  and  do  not  so  openly 
advertise  themselves,  nor  are  their  members  so  pain- 
fully wanting  in  genuine  Bohemianism  as  this  charmed 
circle  of  poets,  minor  critics,  and  indifferent  novelists  who 
dribble  out  little  books  and  puny  poems  on  subjects  theo- 
logical. If  a  minor  writer  chances  to  be  particularly 
friendly  with  a  couple  of  members  it  is  sometimes  decided 
to  c  boom  him,'  or  in  other  words  cram  him  down  the 
public  throat.  With  that  object  he  is  invited  to  the  next 
dinner,  and  then  around  go  the  ingeniously-worded  para- 
graphs that  c  Mr.  So-and-So,  whose  last  book  "Pants" 
attracted  so  much  attention  both  here  and  in  America,  and 
whose  new  study  of  slum  life  is  just  ready,  has  been  invited 
as  guest,  &c.'  The  papers,  from  literary  reviews  to  gut- 
ter-journals, print  them  eagerly;  the  public,  who  have 
never  heard  of '  Pants,'  ask  for  it  at  the  libraries,  and  very 
quickly  Mr.  So-and-So  c  booms,'  his  advertisement  being 
continued  by  the  report  of  the  dinner,  wherein  the  happy 
guest  is  referred  to  as  '  the  new  Scott,'  or  the  writer  c  whose 


12 


178  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

romances  have  been  declared  bv  more  than  one  critic  to  be 
worthy  to  rank  with  those  of  Dickens.' 

Mushroom  reputations  such  as  these  last  for  a  year  or  so, 
and  then  die  down  until,  in  publishers'  parlance,  they  are 
1  dead  uns.'  Once,  indeed,  this  little  company  of  log-rollers 
had  actually  l  boomed  '  a  man  who  had  never  written  any- 
thing more  noteworthy  than  a  few  short  stories  in  a  boys' 
paper,  and  whose  novel  had  been  refused  by  every  publisher 
in  London.  Dozens  of  artificial  reputations  are  manu- 
factured in  this  way  annually.  Men  who  have  struggled 
on  for  years  and  years  doing  good,  honest  work,  work  that 
would  rank  far  in  advance  of  these  Jack-in-the-Box 
geniuses,  are  left  behind  in  this  race  for  fame,  because  thev 
will  not  condescend  to  play  their  own  clarion.  But  to 
such  the  proclamations  of  the  newlv-arrived  sound  like  tin 
whistles  in  an  opera  orchestra,  for  the  sturdy  plodder  in  lit- 
erature knows  well  that  the  public,  although  it  may  be 
gulled  at  first  bv  laudatory  reviews,  will  soon  allow  the 
dull  man  who  is  thus  thrust  upon  them  to  find  his  own 
level,  a  level  from  which  he  will  never  again  ascend.  In 
literature,  as  in  business,  a  reputation  once  lost  can  never 
be  regained. 

Again,  it  is  a  striking  fact  in  literary  London  that  the 
more  incompetent  the  writer  the  more  vain  he  generally 
becomes.  With  one  or  two  exceptions,  perhaps,  the  popu- 
lar writer  is  never  a  vain  man.  In  most  instances  he  is 
surprised  at  his  own  success,  and,  being  so,  cannot  be 
egotistical.  He  leaves  egotism  to  those  clever  young  men 
with  whose  works  his  publisher  fills  up  his  list  ;  men  who 
earn  about  one  twentieth  part  his  income  and  to  whose 
wives'  c  At  homes  '  he  is  invited  in  order  that  he  mav  be 
lionised. 

The  difference  between  Rosmead  and  Monckton  was 
great.      By    dint  of    sheer  toil   the   former  had   forced  his 


THE   SECRET   OF   A   DAY  179 

way  forward  into  notoriety,  while  the  reputation  of  the 
latter  had  been  gained  at  the  expense  of  a  few  midday 
chops  at  the  Savage  Club,  one  or  two  seven-and-sixpenny 
dinners  at  popular  restaurants,  with  a  ^ew  notices  of  books 
remarkable  for  adulatory  phrases  and  '  lines  for  quotation.' 
The  one  was  a  romancer  whose  work  showed  talent  of  the 
highest  order ;  the  other  an  artificial  poet  whose  lines  were 
far  from  faultless,  and  whose  moral  teaching  was  somewhat 

dislocated. 

Yet  Monckton  spoke  to  the  man  introduced  to  him  with 
a  languid,  patronising  air  as  if  the  effort  of  speaking  to 
such  a  person  was  a  bore.  He  raised  his  white,  tapering 
hand,  glanced  at  it,  then  resting  his  elbow  in  his  palm, 
struck  an   attitude,   intended  to  be  imposing. 

He  began  to  praise  Rosmead's  last  book,  but  with  his 
words  of  approbation  were  mingled  disparaging  remarks 
regarding  diction  and  grammar,  in  a  manner  which  showed 
that  he  intended  to  impress  him  with  a  sense  of  his  superi- 
ority.    Monckton  was  nothing  if  not  a  superior  person. 

'  I  don't  know  that  one  need  be  so  very  particular  in  writ- 
ing romance,'  Rosmead  answered,  a  trifle  abruptly,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  Fosca,  who  was  at  that  moment  chatting  with 
much  sprightly  gesticulation  to  an  elderly  and  distinguished 
R.  A.  c  What  people  want  from  a  writer  of  romance  is  a 
good  story,  with  an  absorbing  plot,  and  plenty  of  go  in  it. 
That's  what  I  always  try  to  produce.' 

'  But,  my  dear  Rosmead,'  drawled  the  sandy-haired  poet, 
with  a  look  of  consternation,  '  think  of  your  style.' 

c  I'm  not  a  grammarian,'  answered  Bertram,  impatiently, 
for  the  man's  affected  superiority  disgusted  him.  'Not 
nine-tenths  of  my  readers  care  a  semi-colon  for  grammar ; 
they  want  a  story.  If  they  want  grammar  they  can  buy 
"  Lindley  Murray."  ' 

Both   men  laughed.      Monckton  saw  that  Rosmead  was 


180  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

too  straightforward  and  plain.  So  confidently  did  people 
believe  in  him  that  it  had  become  his  habit  to  pronounce 
his  own  opinions  on  everything  concerning  literature,  from 
the  Baconian  theory  down  to  his  own  latest  effort  in  puny 
verse.  For  a  man  to  speak  of  grammar  in  that  flippant 
manner  horrified  him. 

'  The  masters  of  fiction  always  paid  great  attention  to 
style,'  he  observed. 

'  I'm  not  a  master,  and  never  shall  be,'  Rosmead 
answered.  'As  long  as  I  write  an  interesting  story  and 
the  public  buy  me,  I  seek  no  further  distinction,'  and  as  he 
spoke,  a  tall,  thin,  grey-moustached  man  brushed  past  him. 

It  was  the  Marquis. 

The  recognition  was  mutual.  The  man,  who  had  been 
a  shabby,  penurious  artist's  model  in  Paris,  was  now  quite 
spruce  and  well-dressed,  although  bv  the  manner  in  which 
his  evening  clothes  hung  upon  him,  it  was  evident  he  was 
not  at  home  in  them.  His  face  was  a  trifle  greyer  than  it 
had  been  in  the  days  when  Rosmead  had  lived  on  the  Quai 
Montebello ;  his  hair  was  thinner,  and  he  had  now  shaved 
his  beard,  that  hirsute  appendage  which  had  been  the 
despair  of  so  many  artists. 

'  Ah  !  Signor  Rosmead  !  '  the  old  man  gasped  in  surprise, 
as  his  eyes  met  Bertram's. 

'  Yes,'  the  other  answered  in  French,  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  escape  from  the  superior  person  with  whom  he 
had  been  conversing.      c  So  you  are   in  London,  Marquis  ?  ' 

'No,  no,'  he  laughed.  'Marquis  no  longer.  I've 
dropped  my  title.' 

'  Why  ?  ' 

'  Because  suspicion  always  attaches  to  an  Italian  Marquis, 
except  in  his  own  country,'  he  answered.  '  But  how  have 
you  been  all  these  years  ? ' 

Rosmead  regarded  the  old   man  with    a   smile.      Almost 


THE    SECRET   OF   A   DAY  181 

involuntarily  he  placed  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  for  he 
expected  the  aged  model  to  crave  the  usual  loan  of  thirty 
centimes.  Farini's  eves  were  red  and  shifty,  and  his 
breath  bore  traces  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  refreshment- 
room. 

1  Oh,  Fm  all  right,'  Rosmead  answered  cheerfully. 
'  But  how  is  it  that  we  meet  here  ?  I  thought  you  were 
always  in  Paris,'  and  he  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  old 
Bohemian's  sorry  attempt  at  genteel  garb. 

c  I've  come  with  Fosca.      She's  here,'  he  explained. 

'  Yes,'  the  novelist  replied  briefly.  '  Fve  been  speaking 
with  her.  The  Bouchon  is  here,  too.  Have  you  seen 
him  ?  ' 

'  The  Bouchon  ? '  cried  the  old  Italian,  enthusiastically. 
c  No,  I  haven't  seen  him.  I've  been  all  the  evening  in  the 
other  room,'  he  said,  indicating  the  refreshment-room,  '  in 
conversation  with  a  gentleman.      How  is  the  Signore  ?  ' 

4  As  merry  as  ever,'  Bertram  laughed. 

1  He's  a  great  painter  now,  I  hear,'  the  model  said.  l  My 
prophecy  has  come  true.  He  was  the  only  man  at  Julien's 
who  could  paint  my  forehead  with  any  degree  of  accuracy. 
You  know  what  a  difficult  forehead  Fve  got.  I've  heard 
in  Paris  of  his  success  in  your  Academy.     And  you  ? ' 

Bertram  was  explaining  that  he  had  given  up  painting 
and  taken  to  writing  fiction  when,  seeing  Fosca  left  for  a 
moment  alone,  he,  crossing  quickly  to  her,  whispered  — 

1  Fve  been  waiting  to  get  another  word  with  you.  First, 
whv  are  you  in  London  ? ' 

'  To  seek  you,'  she  answered,  raising  her  fine  eyes  to  his. 

1  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  ' 

1  I  read  a  paragraph  about  you  in  the  Petit  "Journal 
a  month  ago.  It  said  that  you,  Bertram  Rosmead,  now  a 
successful  writer  of  romance,  had  once  studied  art  in  the 
Quartier  Latin,  but,  failing,  had  taken  to  literature,  and  now 


1 82  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

lived  in  London.  Then  I  knew  it  was  my  Bertram,  and 
I   came  here,'   she  said   simply. 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes  for  a  single  instant. 
Yes,  he  saw  she  was  far  more  beautiful  than  in  the  old 
days.  He  had  noticed  how  her  elegant  figure  was  being 
everywhere  admired.  But  the  crowd  had  now  thinned, 
for  it  was  past  two  o'clock,  and  everyone  was  saying 
good-night.  As  he  stood  talking  with  her,  their  host,  hot 
after  his  exertions  to  make  everyone  acquainted  with  every- 
body else,  approached  them,  exclaiming  in  good  French  — 

c  Well,  mademoiselle,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  bored  ? ' 

c  Not  at  all,'  she  replied,  with  a  glance  at  the  man 
beside  her.  c  I've  found  here  an  old  friend  —  a  very  old 
friend.' 

1  Oh,  you  were  acquainted,  were  you  ?  '  he  asked, 
addressing  the   novelist   and   laughing. 

c  Yes,  in  Paris,  long  ago,'  he  replied ;  and  then,  as  his 
host  moved  away,  he  asked  her  for  her  address,  in  order 
that  he  might   call  upon   her. 

c  We're  staying  at  the  Waterloo  Hotel,  in  Jermyn 
Street,'  she  answered.     '  When  will  you  come  ? ' 

'  To-morrow,  at  three,'  he  replied,  after  a  second's 
hesitation. 

1  Very  well,'  she  said,  as  the  Marquis  came  up  to  take 
charge  of  her.  c  Till  then,  good-bye  ;  '  and  in  a  low,  earn- 
est half-whisper  she  added,  c  Remember,  what  I  have  said  is 
the  truth.      I  swear  it  is.      Reflect  before  you  prejudge  me.' 

For  a  moment  her  tiny  hand,  in  its  long  cream  glove, 
rested   in   his.      Then   she  turned   and  left   him. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  driving  along  Kensing- 
ton Gore  towards  his  dingy  Inn,  her  words  still  ringing 
in  his  ears.  The  night  was  chill  and  silent,  the  long  rows 
of  gas-lamps  bright  and  brilliant.  London  was  asleep 
beneath  a  very  peaceful  sky,  which  was  studded  with  stars. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

FRIENDS 

c  I  missed  you  last  night,  old  fellow.  Where  did  you  get 
to  ?  '  inquired  Bertram,  as  he  burst  into  Teddy's  studio 
early  next  morning.  He  had  sent  a  note  to  the  office 
excusing  himself  from  duty  that  day,  and  had  come  down 
to  Kensington  on  purpose  to  consult  his  friend. 

1  I  left  early,'  the  painter  answered,  casting  himself  into 
a  chair,  and  throwing  back  his  head  upon  the  cushion  be- 
hind. c  I  was  at  the  Savage  late  on  the  night  before,  and 
felt  a  bit  chippy.  I  saw  you  chatting  with  Fosca  under  the 
canopy  —  well,  and  the  result  ? ' 

1  The  result  — eh  ?     Well,  the  result  is  nothing.' 
4  You've  charged  her  with  being  unfaithful,  and  all  that, 
I  suppose  ?  ' 

1  Yes,  and  she  denies  it,'  answered  the  novelist,  sinking 
into  a  chair.  '  She  declares  that  she  never  accompanied 
Jean,  and  that  she  wrote  the  letter  merely  because  she 
wished   me  to  believe  her  worthless.' 

c  Then  she  loved  somebody  else,  and  wanted  to  get  rid 
of  you,'  observed  Teddy,  philosophically. 

c  She  swears  she's  never  loved  anybody  else.' 
'  A    lame     excuse  —  a    devilish    lame    excuse,'    Teddy 
grunted  dubiously. 

Bertram  hesitated  whether  he  should  tell  his  friend 
everything.  He  could  trust  O'Donovan,  who  knew  well 
the   secret   sorrow  which   oppressed   his  heart.      Therefore 


1 84  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

he  resolved  to  narrate  the  facts  as  Fosca  had  related 
them. 

c  She  has  told  me  a  strange  story,'  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  those  of  his  friend.  '  She  says  that  she  was  forced  to 
leave  Paris  and  to  part  from  me.  She  loved  me,  yet  it  was 
imperative  that  we  should  separate ;  therefore  she  wrote 
that  cruel  letter,  in  order  that  I  might  cast  her  aside  as 
unfaithful  and  worthless.' 

1  Forced  to  leave  Paris  ? '  echoed  the  O'Donovan. 
«  Why  ? ' 

'  Ah  !  that's  just  the  point,'  Bertram  answered,  with  a 
sigh.     l  She  won't  explain.' 

'  Suspicious,'  observed  the  other.  c  It's  impossible  to 
place  credence  in  a  story  such  as  that  without  a  knowledge 
of  the  whole  facts.  If  she  really  loved  you,  why  didn't  she 
take  you  into  her  confidence  ?  No,  my  dear  fellow,  if  I 
were  you  I  wouldn't  let  the  matter  rest  here.  I'd  make 
her  tell  me  the  truth.  If  she  loves  you  she'll  tell  you  at 
last.  Women  are  fond  of  affecting  secrecy  in  such 
matters.' 

c  It  was  such  an  extraordinary  meeting,'  Bertram  said, 
stretching  himself  in  his  chair.  '  She  says  that  she  read  a 
paragraph  about  me  in  the  Petit  Journal  and  came  to 
London  expressly  to  seek  me.' 

4  I'm  afraid  that's  not  quite  true,'  Teddy  answered. 
c  Before  leaving  last  night  I  made  a  remarkable  discovery, 
one  which  fully  accounts  for  the  Marquis  and  Fosca  being 
in  London.' 

4  What  was  it  ? '  inquired  the  other,  eagerly. 

1  Well,  when  I  came  across  the  Marquis  in  the  crowd 
I  fully  expected  him  to  pin  me  in  a  corner  and  extract 
the  usual  loan.  But  he  didn't ;  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  I  learnt  a  most  astounding  fact.  The  Marquis  is  a 
rich  man.' 


FRIENDS  185 

1  A  rich  man  !  Has  he  at  last  inherited  the  family  castle 
in  Spain  ?  ' 

c  No ;  it  seems  he's  dropped  on  his  legs  in  a  very  re- 
markable way,  even  though  a  little  late  in  life.  You  know 
he  was  always  a  pretty  good  musician.  Well,  it  seems 
that  in  his  younger  days  he  was  a  violinist  at  La  Scala 
Theatre,  in  Milan,  and  rose  to  be  conductor  of  the  orches- 
tra there.  A  drinking  bout  was  the  cause  of  his  services 
being  dispensed  with,  and  he  went  to  Paris,  but  from  that 
time  sank  lower  and  lower,  until  he  became  a  model  for 
the  head,  and  as  such  we  knew  him.  But  in  his  sober 
moments,  during  the  past  few  years,  the  old  boy  has  com- 
posed an  opera,  a  work  which  a  year  ago  was  produced  in 
Vienna,  and  afterwards  in  Paris,  where  it  met  with  such 
success  that  it  has  already  been  heard  in  all  the  European 
capitals.' 

1  The  Marquis  has  written  an  opera  !  '  cried  Bertram,  his 
eyes  opening  incredulously.     '  Never.     What's  its  title  ?  ' 

1 "  The  Loaned  Threepenny-Bit  "  would  have  been  an 
apt  one,'  laughed  Teddy,  'but  its  real  title  is  u  II  Par- 
paglione." ' 

1 "  II  Parpaglione  !  "  '  gasped  the  other.  '  Why  I  saw  it 
a  week  ago  at  Covent  Garden.  It's  magnificent.  Half 
London  raves  over  it,  and  seats  are  booked  months  in 
advance.  Surely  the  Marquis  didn't  compose  that  splendid 
music  ?  ' 

1  He  did,  without  doubt,'  Teddy  replied,  taking  up  the 
morning  paper,  and,  pointing  to  the  advertisement,  handed 
it  across  to  him.     c  There's  his  name.' 

Bertram  looked  and  saw  there  true  enough  the 
announcement  :  c  To-night  at  eight.  Farini's  famous 
opera,   "  II    Parpaglione."  ' 

1  Why  the  profits  from  such  a  work  must  be  enormous,' 
he  exclaimed,  glancing  again  towards  his  friend. 


1 86  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

c  I  should  rather  think  they  were,'  Teddy  replied. 
1  Look  what  a  run  it's  had.  I'm  told  that  in  Italy  it's 
played  in  two  or  three  towns  every  night.  The  Italians 
have  gone  stark  mad  over  it.  Who  would  ever  have 
dreamed  that  the  "  Threepenny  Marquis  "  could  do  any- 
thing except  drink  a  bilboquet,  borrow  thirty  centimes  and 
predict  the  future  success  or  failure  of  the  man  to  whom  he 
sat  for  St.  Peter.      It's  truly  astounding.' 

c  But  of  course  he  was  always  a  good  musician,'  Bertram 
exclaimed.  '  I  remember  once  when  Bresson,  of  the 
orchestra  at  the  Francais,  was  in  our  rooms,  and  we  in- 
duced the  old  chap  to  give  us  a  tune  on  his  mandolin,  he 
declared  that  the  Italian's  music  was  faultless.  Don't  you 
remember  you  asked  what  song  it  was  he  had  played,  and 
he  replied  that  it  was  one  of  his  own,  and  we  all  laughed  him 
to  derision.  The  idea  of  that  drunken  old  scamp  compos- 
ing a  song  was  too  absurd.     Yet  now  we  know  the  truth.' 

c  Poor  old  Marquis  !  In  those  shabby  down-at-heel  days 
nobody  believed  in  him  any  more  than  they  did  in  us,' 
Teddy  observed.  '  He  was  too  good  a  Bohemian  ever  to 
boast,  or  even  refer  to  his  own  talents.' 

I  Yet  "  II  Parpaglione  "  is  the  work  of  a  master.  Go 
and  see  it,'  urged  Bertram. 

c  I  will.  Already  I've  heard  lots  of  the  music,'  the 
artist  answered.  '  For  the  past  six  months  or  so,  every 
orchestra  has  had  selections  from  it  on  their  programme. 
It  is  splendid,  and  although  I'm  not  a  critic  of  music,  seems 
to  me  to  equal  the  best  work  of  Verdi  or  Puccini.' 

c  Yes,  I  entirely  agree  with  you  there.  The  Marquis  is 
undoubtedly  a  genius.  To  think  that  his  head  should  hang 
in  the  galleries  as  that  of  St.  Peter !      It's  too  funny.' 

I I  doubt  whether  the  much-painted  saint  himself  had  a 
finer  head,'  laughed  Teddy.  c  He  certainly  didn't  possess 
such  a  capacious  throat  or  so  charming  a  daughter.' 


FRIENDS  187 

4  Ah,  Fosca  ! '  exclaimed  his  friend,  his  mind  ever  revert- 
ing to  the  woman  he  loved.  '  I'm  going  to  call  on  her 
this  afternoon.' 

'Then  compel  her  to  tell  you  everything.  Clear  up  the 
mystery,  or  it  will  worry  you  to  death.  You  were  hard 
hit  in  those  days,  and  you  haven't  yet  got  over  it.' 

1  I  shall  never  get  over  it,  I  fear,  old  fellow.' 

The  artist  sighed.  He  knew  that  his  friend,  ever 
modest  and  sincere,  spoke  the  truth.  Fosca,  the  sprightly 
neat-ankled  girl  who  had  come  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  to 
brighten  their  shabby  old  studio,  and  had  captivated  them 
all  in  the  old  days  on  the  Quai  Montebello,  was  now,  as  the 
daughter  of  the  distinguished  composer,  more  graceful,  more 
strikingly  beautiful  with  her  Parisian  chic,  her  bright  eyes 
and  her  musical  laughter,  than  she  had  been  when  her  face 
was  rendered  pale  and  haggard  by  long  hours  in  the  Maga- 
sins  du  Louvre.  Teddy  saw  that  in  Rosmead  all  the  old 
fire  of  love  had  been  rekindled,  that  she  was  still  his  idol, 
even  though  she  had  once  cast  him  aside  in  favour  of  a 
more  wealthy  lover,  even  though  in  his  own  bizarre  home 
his  peevish  wife  was  fast  drinking  herself  to  death. 

c  Don't  act  rashly,  old  chap.  That's  all  my  advice,'  the 
artist  said. 

c  I'm  not  likely  to,'  his  friend  sighed.  c  You,  Teddy,  are 
the  only  man  who  knows  my  secret.  To  the  world  I'm  a 
happy,  successful  man,  whose  reputation  grows  daily,  and 
who  has  every  prospect  in  life,  but  alas  !  at  heart  I'm  one 
of  the  most  wretched  fellows  on  earth.  Without  comfort 
at  home,  without  a  single  friend  except  yourself,  I  live  on 
from  year  to  year,  growing  every  day  more  careless  of  the 
future,  because  it  can  only  bring  me  vexation  and  sorrow. 
I  have  striven  and  fought  for  my  standing  in  my  profession 
until  I  have  gained  the  mastery,  but  the  result  is  only  an 
empty  name.     There  is  no  brightness  in  my  home,  or  in 


188  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

my  heart,  because  mine  has  been  a  vain  effort,  its  result  a 
fruitless  blank.  Fame  has  come  to  me,  but  alas  !  at  what 
bitter  cost ! '  he  added  in  the  voice  of  a  man  over-burdened 
with  poignant  sorrow.  Teddy  was  struck  by  his  weary, 
dismal  countenance,  whence  all  life  appeared  to  have  been 
effaced  by  the  long  years  of  toil  and  disappointment. 

'  No,  don't  give  up,  my  dear  old  fellow,'  he  cried,  rising 
and  placing  his  hand  upon  his  friend's  shoulder.  l  One 
woman  alone  loves  you  and  has  your  interests  at  heart.  It 
is,  however,  not  just  that  you  should  love  her.  Long  ago 
I  told  you  that  Lena  would  be  your  ruin.  She  is  worth- 
less —  absolutely  worthless,  and  unfitted  to  be  the  wife  of 
an  honest  straightforward  man  of  your  stamp.' 

I  Why  do  you  say  she  is  worthless  ? '  asked  Rosmead. 
4  Whenever  you  speak  of  her  I  always  have  a  strange  fancy 
you  are  in  possession  of  some  secret  that  you  would  like 
me  to  know.     What  is  it  ? ' 

The  artist  hesitated,  his  eyes,  with  an  unusually  serious 
expression,  fixed  upon  those  of  his  friend. 

'  I  say  that  she's  unfit  to  be  your  wife,  Bertram.  I  can 
say  no  more  than  that,'  he  answered  very  gravely. 

8  You  advise  me  to  abandon  her  ? '  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

8  Yes.     Come  back  to  life  —  love,  be  a  man.' 

8  To  love  Fosca  instead  ?  '  he  inquired  with  knit  brows. 

I I  did  not  suggest  that,'  the  artist  replied,  waving  his 
hand  in  a  vague  way.  8  No,  I  will  not  advise  you  to  for- 
sake your  wife  for  a  woman  who  has  already  played  you 
false.' 

8  But  Fosca's  secret  ? '  the  novelist  observed  uneasily. 
Intense  emotion  was  stirring  him. 

1  Ascertain  its  nature.  Then  consider  how  you  should 
act,'  Teddy  suggested.  c  The  ways  of  women  are  very 
strange.      Even   now  she  may  be  lying  to  you.' 


FRIENDS  189 

'  No,'  he  murmured  bitterly,  l  I  believe  she  speaks  the 
truth.      But  I  must  not  love  her  —  I  dare  not.' 

He  was  shaken  by  so  frightful  a  sob  that  Teddy  could 
not  restrain  his  own  tears.  Their  hands  were  clasped, 
their  hearts  full  of  the  softest  emotion.  Could  Bertram 
Rosmead  have  known  the  ghastlv  truth,  he  would  have 
been  struck  bv  the  nobility  of  soul  which  had  lain  for  so 
long  behind   his   friend's  anxietv. 

But  the  death  born  of  doubt  had  swept  through  him, 
shattering  everything,  and  rendering  his  bodv  but  the 
sepulchre  of  all  his  hopes  and  aspirations,  of  all  his  energies, 
of  all  his  love. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE    CUP    OF    PLEASURE 

The  afternoon  was  chilly,  and  as  Fosca  sat  over  the  fire  in 
her  cosy  little  sitting-room  in  the  Waterloo  Hotel,  that 
essentially  foreign  hostelry  in  Jermyn  Street,  she  shivered 
and   drew  her  low  chair   nearer. 

Suddenly  the  Marquis  entered  from  the  adjoining  room, 
red  in  the  face  and  fuming.  He  was  coatless,  and  his  hair 
was  awry  on  account  of  a  strenuous,  but  futile  effort  to 
button   a  very   stiff  collar. 

1  Confound  these  laundry-women's  triumphs,'  cried  the 
old  man,  in  anger,  speaking  in  Italian,  as  he  always  did  when 
vexed.     '  I  can't  button  the  thing.' 

c  Oh,  let  me  do  it !  '  exclaimed  Fosca,  jumping  up  and 
taking  the  refractorv  collar  in  her  hand.  ( Poor  babbo, 
you're  always  in  trouble  over  your  clothes  nowadays.' 

c  Madre  di  Dio  !  Yours  give  you  enough  trouble,  too,' 
he  snapped.  c  You're  always  at  the  dressmaker's,  and  I 
have  to  pay  some  very  interesting  bills.' 

1  You  know  vou  always  like  to  see  me  look  very  nice,' 
she  laughed.  c  Come,  let  me  button  your  collar  !  '  and  with 
a  deft  movement  she  fixed  the  stud  in  its  place.  c  Shall  I 
tie  your  cravat   for   you  ?  ' 

'No,  no,'  he  answered.  '  Only  a  man  can  tie  a  man's 
bow  properly.  Holy  Virgin  !  one  has  to  pay  dearly  for  a 
bit  of  success.  In  the  old  days  I  never  wanted  a  collar, 
and  I  was  far  more  comfortable  without  one.' 


THE   CUP   OF    PLEASURE  191 

1  But  we  both  often  wanted  a  meal,'  Fosca  observed  a 
trifle  gravely.  c  And  if  your  success  had  come  earlier  poor 
mother  might  have  been   saved   a  lot  of  suffering. ' 

c  Ah,  yes  ! '  sighed  the  great  composer,  growing  grave  in 
an  instant  at  mention  of  his  dead  wife's  name.  c  Poor 
dear  !  If  I  had  only  had  this  success  two  or  three  years 
ago  her  life  perhaps  might  have  been  saved  by  the  great 
doctors.  There  is,  alas,  no  help  for  the  invalid  poor. 
Monsieur  Rosmead  asked  last  night  after  her,  and  I  was 
compelled  to  tell  him  the  truth  —  that  she  was  dead.' 
Then  suddenly  breaking  off,  he  added,  c  By  the  way,  he's 
going  to   call   on  you   to-day,   isn't   he  ? ' 

c  Yes,  babbo ;  he's  due  here  now,'  she  answered,  hesi- 
tating  slightly,   her   cheeks   flushing. 

'  Well,  you  must  entertain  him  yourself,'  he  replied.  '  I 
suppose  in  polite  society,  such  as  we  are  compelled  nowa- 
days to  affect,  it  isn't  considered  quite  the  thing  for  an 
unmarried  woman  to  receive  a  gentleman.  Yet  you  often 
went  walks  with  him  in  Paris,  young  puss,  and  I  suppose 
you  still  love  him  now,  if  the  truth  were  told  —  eh  ? ' 

1  Why  ?  '   she  asked,  with  affected  indifference. 

1  The  look  on  vour  face  when  you  met  him  was  quite 
sufficient  to  tell  me  the  truth,'  answered  the  Marquis.  '  I'm 
old  now,  my  dear,  but  I,  too,  was  young  once.'  And  he 
sighed. 

c  Poor  babbo,'  she  answered,  looking  at  him  gravelv. 
c  But  you're  not  very  old  !  you'll  live  years  longer  yet,  and 
write  lots  more  operas.' 

c  No,'  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of  sadness.  c  I  have  no 
further  ambition  to  write.  One  success,  such  as  the  "  Par- 
paglione,"  is  sufficient.  I  shall  never  do  anything  better  — 
never.' 

c  Oh,  yes,  you  will,'  cried  his  daughter,  cheerily.  '  I'm 
sure  you  will.     After  this,  we'll  go  to  Tuscany,  to  Lucca, 


192  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

that  grey,  quaint  old  city  where  we  stayed  six  months  ago. 
There  you  can  settle  down  to  work  again,  and  in  easy  cir- 
cumstances. We'll  have  a  nice  villa  with  a  terrace  and  a 
garden,  with  trailing  vines  and  an  arbour  where  we  can 
dine  together.  It  will  be  quite  an  ideal  existence.  I  love 
the   old   place.' 

c  But  you  forget,'  her  father  said,  interrupting  her,  l  you 
forget  that  I'm  a  born  Bohemian,  and  can't  settle  any- 
where ;  you  forget,  too,  that  you  may  marry,  and  then  I 
shall  not  want  a  villa.  A  couple  of  rooms  off  the  "  Boul. 
Mich."  are  good  enough  for  me.' 

1  No,  no,'  Fosca  answered  quicklv.  '  I'll  never  allow 
you  to  go  back  there  again.  Remember  who  you  are  now 
—  the  most  distinguished  composer  of  the  day,  the  man  of 
the  hour.  Look  upon  your  writing-table  there,  and  see 
the  invitations  which  have  come  to  you  from  well-known 
people  who  want  to  lionise  you,  the  applications  for  inter- 
views, and  for  autographs.  Do  not  thev  convince  you  that 
you  ought  not  to  drift  back  to  the  old  life  of  the  Quartier? 
No,  babbo  ;  you  shall  never  go  there.  The  influence  of 
your  companions  there  would  be  fatal.' 

c  In  other  words,'  he  laughed,  c  you  mean  that  I  should 
just  drink  mvself  to   death  ?  ' 

c  When  vou  don't  drink  you  know  you're  much  better  in 
both  health  and  temper,'  she  said,  with  a  convincing  air. 

But  he  laughed  lightlv,  stroking  her  dark  hair  as  she 
lifted   her  handsome  anxious   face  to   his. 

c  I  must  be  going,'  he  said.  c  I  have  an  appointment  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre  at  three,  so  I've  only  just  time. 
You'll  wait  and  see  your  lover,  of  course.  Rosmead's  a 
good  fellow,  a  very  good  fellow.  I  always  liked  him.  He's 
become  quite  a  famous  romance-writer,  I  hear.' 

c  Yes,'  Fosca  replied.  l  Even  the  Paris  papers  speak  of 
him  as  one  of  the  most  prominent  among  English  novelists. 


THE    CUP   OF    PLEASURE  193 

But  why  do  vou  refer  to  him  as  my  lover,  babbo ? '  she 
inquired,   laughing   a  trifle  nervously. 

c  Because  he  was  so  long  ago,  and,  judging  from  vour 
lover-like  attitude  at  St.  Barbe's  last  night,  I  assume  that 
the  old  love  has  been  revived,'  answered  the  Marquis,  a 
mischievous   twinkle   in   his   dark,   deep-set   eyes. 

Fosca  blushed,  but  did  not  answer.  The  old  Bohemian 
knew  bv  her  demeanour  that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

4  Well,  don't  marrv  too  quickly,  that's  all,'  her  father 
urged.  '  You  know  how  lonelv  I  shall  be  without  you, 
especially  nowadavs,  when  I  have  to  put  on  a  clean  starched 
shirt  everv  night,  and  dress  like  a  cafe-waiter.' 

His  daughter  laughed.  One  of  his  pet  aversions  was 
evening  dress.  He  alwavs  declared  that  he  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  Monsieur  de  Paris,  the  official  French  heads- 
man, and  she  often  declared  to  her  friends  that  her  father 
would  be  entirelv  satisfied  with  his  success  were  it  not  for 
the  fact  that  he  had  now  to  conform  to  the  conventional 
rules  of  societv.  He  could  no  longer  drink  that  cheap  wine 
of  the  Quartier  he  loved  so  well,  nor  could  he  consume 
those  long  rank  cigars.  For  good  Havanas  he  had  no 
appreciation.  Like  many  another  Bohemian,  whom  Dame 
Success  has  dragged  out  of  the  Latin  Quartier,  he  retained 
a  secret  affection  for  those  thin  and  particularly  choking 
cigars  which  one  purchases  for  ten  centimes  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  Madame.  He  was  at  home  beyond  the  Pont 
Neuf,  where  he  could  lounge  in  the  little  cafes  or  eat  at 
Mother  Gerv's,  and  chat  with  the  men  he  knew  ;  but  here, 
in  London  societv,  the  admired  composer  of  one  of  the 
most  notable  operas  of  the  past  ten  years,  he  felt  uncom- 
fortable, and  even  hated  his  success  because  of  the  social 
duties   it   imposed   upon   him. 

To  Fosca,  however,  the  gaiety  was  pleasant.  Long  ago, 
when   serving   those  grand   ladies   at   the   Louvre,  she   had 

13 


194  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

often  wished  that  she,  too,  might  be  rich,  receive  invitations 
to  balls  and  dinners,  and  wear  dresses  which  other  women 
would  admire  and  envy.  In  her  day-dreams  she  had  some- 
times imagined  herself  in  the  place  of  one  of  those  women 
whose  accepted  invitations  were  so  numerous  that  they  had 
to  keep  a  diary  of  them,  and  now  she  was  actually  one  of 
them.  For  more  than  a  year  her  life  with  her  father  had 
been  one  perpetual  round  of  gaiety  in  Vienna,  in  Peters- 
burg, in  Milan,  in  Berlin,  in  Rome,  and  now  in  London. 
Courted  and  flattered  because  of  her  extreme  beauty,  she 
had  drained  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs,  but  inwardly 
she  told  herself  that  not  one  man  she  had  met  had  ever 
stirred  within  her  heart  the  chord  of  love.  In  her  memory 
there  had  ever  remained  the  image  of  the  one  man  for  whom 
she  entertained  affection  —  the  dark-haired,  grave-faced, 
unsuccessful  artist,  the  man  whom  she  had  so  deeply 
wronged.  But  at  such  times  there  would  arise  within  her 
a  remembrance,  a  strange,  terrible  ghost  of  the  past  which 
held  her  transfixed,  dumb,  horror-stricken. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  she  sat  when  a  few  moments 
later  the  Marquis  had  left,  having  struggled  into  his  coat, 
and  lit  one  of  his  favourite  ten-centime  cigars,  which  he 
found  he  could  purchase  at  a  shop  in  Coventry  Street,  Hay- 
market.  She  presented  a  somewhat  nervous  appearance  as 
she  crouched  again  beside  the  fire,  her  tiny  red  morocco 
shoes  upon  the  fender.  Her  dress  of  pearl-grey,  which  any 
woman  would  have  recognised  as  bearing  the  unmistakable 
stamp  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  rendered  her  figure  more  slim 
and  fragile  than  her  black  costume  of  the  previous  night, 
but  it  suited  her  complexion  well,  even  though  her  face 
was  a  trifle  pale  and  anxious.  She  had  glanced  at  the  little 
travelling-clock  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  had  seen  that  it 
was  already  past  three,  when  almost  the  next  second  the 
man  she  was  expecting  was  ushered  in. 


THE    CUP   OF   PLEASURE  195 

She  rose  slowly  to  meet  him,  and  he  took  her  hand  with- 
out a  word.  Then,  wThen  they  had  both  seated  themselves 
and  the  door  had  closed,  she  exclaimed,  in  French  : 

1  So  you  have  come  !  I  began  to  think  you  did  not  intend 
to  see  me  again.' 

'  For  both  our  sakes,  Fosca,  it  would  have  been  best, 
perhaps,  if  I  had  not  come,'  he  answered  in  a  low  intense 
tone,  his  voice  shaken  bv  an  emotion  he  tried  in  vain  to 
subdue. 

1  Why  ? '  she  inquired  quicklv,  in  some  surprise.  c  You 
made  an  appointment.  If  vou  had  not  kept  it,  your  conduct 
would  not  have  been  gentlemanly.' 

c  I  know  it,'  he  said.  c  But  there  are  times  when  even 
rudeness   is   judicious.' 

She  sighed,  guessing  at  what  he  hinted. 

1  I  have  learnt,'  he  went  on,  '  I  have  learnt  of  vour 
father's  wonderful  success,  and  of  vour  recent  travels  all 
over  Europe.  The  Marquis  is  certainly  to  be  congratu- 
lated, and  you,  too,  on  possessing  such  a  talented  father. 
I  saw  the  "  Parpaglione  "  the  other  night,  but  never  dreamed 
that  he,  my  old  friend,  the  father  of  the  woman  I  loved, 
composed  that  delightful  music' 

4  The  woman  vou  loved,'  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice, 
sad  and  mournful,  staring  into  the  fire.  c  You  use  the 
past  tense.      Then  vou   no  longer  love   me  ?  ' 

He  hesitated,  gazing  at  her  white,  haggard  face,  and  see- 
ins:  there  how  soul-wean*  she  was. 

4  I  did  not  say  that,'  he  hastened  to  assure  her.  '  Any 
declaration  of  affection  is,  however,  futile  under  the  cir- 
cumstances.' 

«  Why  ?  ' 

c  Because  you  refuse  to  be  frank  with  me,'  he  answered. 

c  Ah  !  '  she  easped,  holding  her  breath  for  a  single  in- 
stant.     -  Ah,  ves  !      I,  of  course,  told  you  last  night.' 


196  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

I  You  told  me  nothing,'  he  observed.  "  It  is  to  ask  you 
to  confide  in  me  the  truth  that  I  have  come  to  you  now.' 

I I  have  told  you  the  truth,'  she  answered,  composing 
herself  in   determination. 

1  You  say  that  the  cause  of  your  leaving  Paris  was 
not  love  for  Jean.  Well,  what  was  it  ? '  he  demanded. 
'  Surely,  Fosca,  I,  of  all  men,  have  a  right  to  an  explana- 
tion ? ' 

1  Yes,'  she  slowly  answered.  '  You  have  a  right,  the 
greatest  right,  but  unfortunately  my  motive  for  leaving 
Paris  on  that  day  was  a  secret,  and  must  still  ever  remain 
a  secret.' 

c  One  that  inculpates  you  ? ' 

'  Inculpates  me  !  '  she  gasped,  blanching  to  the  lips  in 
an   instant.     '  What  do   you  mean  ?  ' 

Was  it  possible,  she  wondered,  that  he  could  have  any 
suspicion  of  the  terrible  truth  concealed  within  her  heart  ? 

c  I  mean  that  you  wrote  to  me,  saying  that  you  preferred 
Jean.  What  guarantee  have  I  that  such  was  not  actually 
the  case  ?  ' 

She  breathed  again  more  freely.  Evidently  he  knew 
nothing. 

1  You  have  only  my  word,  Bertram,'  she  answered 
quietly,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  with  her  bright, 
dark  eyes  brimming  with  tears.  fc  The  word  of  an  honest 
woman.' 

At  that  instant  Rosmead  felt  himself  wavering.  Was 
it  true,  after  all,  that  his  doubts  were  without  foundation; 
that  she  really  loved  him  with  that  true  womanly  love  for 
which  his  heart  had  yearned  so  long.  He  remembered 
Lena,  the  degenerated  product  of  the  theatre  dressing- 
room,  the  idle,  intemperate  woman  who  had  done  her  best 
to  bring  him  down  to  her  own  level,  who  had  forced  him 
to   drink   with   her    in   those  low  bars   he  abominated  ;  the 


THE    CUP   OF   PLEASURE  197 

woman  who  would  journey  half  London  over  if  she  thought 
whiskey  would  be  offered  her ;  the  woman  who  would 
pawn  the  rings  he  had  given  her,  buy  gin  with  the  pro- 
ceeds, and  drink  it  neat  until  their  rooms  stank  with  its 
stale,  nauseating   odour. 

Often  and  often  had  a  lump  arisen  in  his  throat,  and 
bitter  tears  welled  in  his  deep,  serious  eyes  when,  after 
trying  to  argue  with  her,  and  show  her  the  folly  of  her 
actions,  she  had  raved  at  him,  abusing  and  cursing  him. 
Many  and  many  a  night  had  he  gone  out,  crushed  and 
hopeless,  wandering  down  one  or  other  of  the  quieter 
streets  off  the  Strand  to  the  Embankment,  plunged  in  his 
own  sad  thoughts,  with  his  future  dismal  and  hopeless. 
Everywhere,  in  the  eyes  of  all  his  friends,  Lena  had  dis- 
graced him.  He  never  now  took  her  anywhere,  because 
of  her  terrible  craving  for  drink.  He  had  grown  callous, 
and  ceased  to  regard  her  with  affection.  She  had  by  her 
constant  ill-temper,  her  utter  disregard  for  his  well-being, 
her  disgraceful  behaviour,  and  her  ever-ready  abuse,  dulled  his 
senses  and  stifled  all  the  love  that  ever  existed  within  his 
heart. 

Now,  at  this  moment,  with  Fosca  at  his  side,  he  could 
only  regard  the  woman  who  bore  his  name  as  an  encum- 
brance. 

He  remembered  O'Donovan's  advice,  and  resolved  to 
stand   firm   and   seek   an   explanation. 

c  I  should  never  have  doubted  your  honesty,  Fosca,'  he 
said,  after  a  long  pause,  c  were  it  not  for  that  letter.' 

c  It  was  a  mistake  which  I've  ever  since  regretted,'  she 
answered  quickly,  adding,  c  Then  you  don't  think  I'm 
honest  ? ' 

c  I  cannot  judge  until  I  know  the  true  facts,'  he  re- 
sponded diplomatically.  '  At  present  you  are  only  seeking 
to  mystify  me.' 


198  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

c  No,  no,'  she  protested  vehemently.  l  Believe  me, 
Bertram,  I  would  tell  you  all  —  explain  everything  —  if  I 
only  dared.      But  I  dare  not.      It  would  be  fatal.' 

4  Because  you  think  that  the  truth  would  reflect  upon 
you  too   strongly  ?  ' 

c  Ah  !  '  she  sighed  deeply,  in  a  trembling  voice.  4  If  I 
could  tell  you,  even  then  you  would  never  believe  the 
strange  facts  without  proof  —  and  proof  I  could  not  give 
you.      Silence   is   best,   even   though   it  be   enforced.' 

'  A  silence  that  will  drive  me  to  desperation.' 

c  No,  no,'  she  answered.  l  Believe  that  I  am  still  an 
honest  woman,  that  I  do  not  lie  to  you,  that  —  that  I  love 
you.' 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  earnestly.  In  exercising  his 
profession  as  novelist,  he  had  learned  to  observe  closely,  to 
analvse  character,  and  to  divine  thoughts.  He  saw  in  her 
eyes  that  bright,  eager,  wistful  look  which  cannot  be 
feigned  —  the  glance  of  genuine  love.  He  was  inclined 
to  believe  her,  yet,  sitting  there  in  her  chair,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  red  lips  parted,  displaying  her  even  rows 
of  pearly  teeth,  her  dark  hair  straying  in  tiny  tendrils  across 
her  white  brow,  she  seemed  to  him  so  typical  of  Circe  that 
he  hesitated. 

Was  her  declaration  of  love  mere  caprice,  he  wondered. 
Was  it  not  likely  that  in  the  years  that  had  passed  she  had 
had  a  troop  of  lovers  ?  The  great  beauty  she  had  devel- 
oped was  sufficient  guarantee  that  many  men  had  admired 
her,  and  what  more  natural  than  she  should  have  recip- 
rocated their  love  ?  She  had  come  to  England  to  participate 
in  her  father's  success,  and  now,  finding  in  her  old  student- 
lover  a  man  of  mark,  she  had  resolved  to  again  bring  him 
to  her  side,  and  to  toy  with  his  affections  as  she  had  done  in 
those  davs  of  long  ago.  Such  thoughts  flashed  through  his 
brain  as  he  sat  before  her,  and  his  heart  hardened. 


THE    CUP   OF   PLEASURE  199 

Witnessing  the  heavy  look  upon  his  face,  she  slowly 
stretched  forth  her  white,  bejewelled  hand,  but  he  did  not 
offer  to  take   it. 

c  Do  you  believe  no  word  I  utter  ? '  she  asked  in  a  low, 
intense  tone. 

c  I  cannot  feel  convinced  that  vou  still  love  me,'  he  an- 
swered.     l  If  vou  did,  vou  would  at  least  confide  in  me.' 

c  I  do  confide  in  you,'  she  protested.  c  My  inability  to 
explain  the  reason  why  I  left  Paris  on  that  morning,  long 
ago,  is  not  my  own  fault.      I  act  under  compulsion.' 

c  You  fear  an  exposure  of  the  truth,'  he  observed  in  a 
half  whisper. 

1  Yes,'  she  sighed.  c  At  present  the  truth  must  remain 
hidden  from  evervone,  even  from  you,  the  man  I  love.  If 
I  told  vou  it  would  be  fatal  to  your  interests  —  as  well  as 
to  mine.' 

1  I  really  don't  understand  vou,  Fosca,'  he  said,  growing 
for  a  moment  impatient.  '  You  seem  determined  to  mystify 
me  without  any  just  reason.' 

1  No,'  she  answered.  c  You  mystify  yourself  by  con- 
tinuing to  repeat  the  one  question  to  which  I  am  unable  to 
give  a  satisfactory  reply.' 

<  Why  ?  ' 

4  Because  I  do  not  mvself  know  the  actual  truth  of  the 
circumstances  which  forced  me  to  leave  Paris,  therefore  I 
cannot  explain  to  vou  that  which  is  still  a  mvstery,'  she 
replied  with  an  affected  calmness.  Her  face  had  grown 
hard-set  and  very  pale,  as  if  she  were  struggling  desperately 
to  preserve  the  great  secret  of  her  life,  one  which  ever 
oppressed  her,  holding  her  crushed  and  powerless. 

On  his  part,  he  was  hesitating  whether  he  should  tell  her 
of  his  marriage,  or  whether  it  would  be  best  to  leave  her 
without  referring;  to  the  unfortunate  bond  which  held  him 
galled,  and  aloof  from  her.      Her  determination  to  preserve 


200  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

her  secret  — which  he  felt  confident  was  a  guilty  one  — 
made  it  impossible  to  believe  in  her  declaration  of  constant 
affection.  Once  he  thought  he  had  detected  an  artificial 
ring  in  her  voice,  and  by  this  his  suspicions  became  deep- 
rooted.  His  nature  was  by  no  means  impetuous.  His 
careful  studies  of  character  and  human  nature  had  rendered 
him  a  little  cold  and  cynical,  a  trifle  world-weary  before  his 
time,  as  it  ever  does  with  men  who  practise  the  profession 
of  letters.  The  novelist's  success  depends  mainly  upon  his 
keen  insight  into  character  and  his  quick  perception  of  all 
the  emotions  and  passions  that  stir  the  human  heart,  powers 
which  he  only  achieves  after  long  and  constant  studies, 
studies  which  in  the  majority  of  cases  render  him  coldly 
philosophical,  with  a  disbelief  in  any  unselfishness  in  human 
nature,  morose  perhaps,  and  generally  wearied,  and  apa- 
thetic of  the  world's  pleasures.  Bertram  Rosmead  was, 
however,  not  naturally  a  morose  man.  Constantly  depressed 
by  Lena's  ill-temper  and  intemperance,  he  had,  nevertheless, 
become  dull,  and  careless  of  all  beyond  the  manuscript 
which  at  the  moment  lay  upon  his  writing-table. 

Should  he  confide  in  Fosca  ?  Should  he  tell  her  of  his 
unfortunate  union  with  a  woman  he  had  never,  and  could 
never,  love  ? 

He  paused. 

She  had  not  been  frank  with  him  ;  therefore,  he  would 
not  be  frank  with  her.  No.  He  determined  to  part  from 
her,  and  allow  her  to  remain  in  ignorance.  When  she  dis- 
covered the  truth,  she  would  be  filled  with  chagrin.  That 
should   be   her  punishment. 

c  I  think,'  he  said  at  last,  regarding  her  with  a  calm,  open 
look,  '  I  think  it  was  rather  unfortunate  for  us  both  that  we 
should  have  met  again  like  this,  Fosca.  It  has  only  opened 
up  old  wounds,  which  I  thought  were  healed  long  ago.' 

4  Are  you  sorry  ?  '  she  asked,  in  a  low,  reproachful  whis- 


THE    CUP   OF   PLEASURE  201 

per.  c  Do  you  actually  regret,  Bertram  ?  Yet  you  used  to 
declare  that  you  would  love  me  my  whole  life  through,  you 
used  to  assure  me,  when  we  walked  together  in  the  Bois  — 
do  you  remember  those  days  ?  —  how  well  you  loved  me, 
how  that  I  was  your  heart,  body,  and  soul  ?  And  now  all 
is  of  the  past.  You  regret  because  we  have  met,'  she  added, 
sighing,  with  poignant  bitterness. 

1  We  were  both  young  and  foolish  then,'  he  stammered. 
c  Age  and  experience  changes  everyone.' 

c  Then  if  it  has  changed  you,'  she  said,  in  a  voice  half 
choked  with  emotion,  c  if  you  no  longer  love  me,  there  is 
little  use  for  us  to  meet  again.  When  you  reflect,  are  you 
not  convinced  that  I,  too,  loved  you  truly  then  ;  are  you 
not  convinced  that  I  cared  for  no  one  except  yourself? ' 

c  Yes,'  he  responded  promptly.  l  You  loved  me  once, 
Fosca  —  until  you  knew  that  I  was  penniless.' 

'  Ah,  no  !  '  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears,  as,  rising  sud- 
denly, and  standing  at  his  side,  she  grasped  his  hand.  c  I 
swear  it  was  not  so.  Money  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  it.' 

c  But  love  had,'  he  interrupted  ruthlessly.  '  You  loved 
Jean   Potin.' 

c  Never,'  she  declared.  c  I  swear  I  never  did,  any  more 
than  you  loved  the  —  that  woman  whom  your  friend 
O'Donovan  adored.' 

He  noticed  with  what  strange  hesitancy  she  spoke  of  the 
mysterious  Violette,  and  wondered.  It  seemed  as  though, 
for  some  unknown  reason,  she  hated  the  dead  woman's 
memory. 

'  But  from  motives  which  you  are,  even  now,  resolved  to 
hide,  you  led  me  to  believe  so,'  he  observed,  without  attempt- 
ing to  disguise  the  doubt  consuming  him. 

She  sighed,  then  held  her  breath,  regarding  him  with  a 
troubled,  wistful  expression. 


202  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

1  I  know,  I  know,'  she  murmured.  c  But  vou  will  for- 
give my  one  foolish  action  ?  I  desired  to  leave  behind  me 
all  of  the  past,  even  you,  because —  because  I  was  unworthy 
your  love,'  she  cried,  in  tears. 

c  Your  words  are  sufficient  proof  of  your  unfaithfulness,' 
he  answered,  in  a  chilling  tone. 

c  iVlv  unfaithfulness  !  '  she  echoed  blanklv.  c  Ah  !  If  I 
could  tell  you  —  if  I  dared  to  tell  you —  all!  But  you 
will  never  believe  me  —  never.' 

c  No,'  he  said,  rising  slowly,  and  putting  her  outstretched 
hand  from  him.  c  You  speak  the  truth,  Fosca.  I  cannot 
believe  vou.' 

'You  believe  that  I  lie  to  vou,'  she  gasped,  drawing  back, 
and  regarding  him  through  her  tears. 

CI  express  no  opinion,'  he  answered  coldly;  c  none  be- 
yond the  suggestion  that  we  should  not  meet  again.' 

c  You  will  forsake  me  because  —  because  of  this,'  she 
wailed,   in  a  trembling  voice. 

c  When  vou  care  to  give  me  a  clear  explanation,  I  am 
ready  to  hear  it,'  he  replied.  c  Until  then,  we  shall  not 
meet.' 

He  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  hers  lingered  in  it  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  released  her,  and,  turning,  left  the  room 
without  further  word  ;  while  she,  when  the  door  had  closed, 
flung  herself  upon  the  couch,  and,  heedless  of  everything, 
gave  way  to  a  torrent  of  bitter  tears.  The  man  she  loved 
better  than  life,  the  man  who  had  been  ever  in  her  thoughts 
since  that  well-remembered  dav  when  she  had  fled  secretly 
from  Paris,  had  forsaken  her,  because  he  believed  her  worth- 
less, soulless. 

Yet  her  secret  held  her  dumb. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THAT    WOMAN'S    LOVER  ' 

Two  hours  later,  while  the  yellow  London  twilight  was 
fast  darkening,  Fosca  sat  in  the  low  chair,  her  red,  tear- 
stained  eves  fixed  blankly  upon  the  flickering  fire,  reflect- 
ing bitterly  upon  the  interview  with  Bertram,  and  its  result. 
The  Marquis  had  not  yet  returned,  and  she  had  not  rung  for 
the  lights,  preferring  to  remain  in  the  glimmer  of  the  fading 
day,  as  it  harmonised  better  with  her  own  sad  thoughts. 

Bertram  had  discarded  her.  He  had  forsaken  her 
because  of  her  inability  to  speak  the  truth,  and  she  was 
now  trying  to  devise  some  excuse  by  which  she  might 
bring  him  again  to  her  side.  She  had  staked  all — her 
heart,  her  soul,  her  honour  —  and  she  had  lost.  He  doubted 
her.  He  had  implied  that  she  lied  to  him,  and  had  coldly 
told  her  that  further  belief  in  her  honesty  was  impossible. 
She  had,  therefore,  no  hope  of  regaining  his  love,  because 
she  knew  too  well,  alas  !  that  any  explanation  was  out  of 
the  question.      Her  lips  were  sealed  in  a  fatal  silence. 

She  murmured  some  strange,  incoherent  words,  sighed 
deeply,  and  then  remained  with  her  pointed  chin  resting 
in  her  palm,  her  eyes  fixed  again  upon  the  fire. 

In  this  reflective  attitude  she  sat  for  some  time  without 
stirring,  when  suddenly  she  was  awakened  from  her  painful 
reverie  bv  the  door  opening,  and  the  waiter  exclaiming  in 
French  — 

c  There  is  a  gentleman  to  see  mademoiselle.' 


204  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

4  Who  ?  '   asked  Fosca,  turning  quickly. 

1  Monsieur  has  given  no  name,'  the  man  answered. 
c  Will   mademoiselle   see  him  ? ' 

Fosca,  now  thoroughly  aroused,  reflected  for  a  moment. 
It  was  strange  that  a  man  who  wished  to  see  her  should 
refuse  his  name.  It  savoured  of  mystery.  Her  first  im- 
pulse was  to  decline  to  see  the  stranger,  but  on  second 
thought  that  it  might  be  someone  who  desired  to  see  her 
father  on  business,  she,  after  a  moment's  further  hesitation, 
told   the  waiter  to  admit   him. 

The  door  closed,  but  opened  again  quickly  as  the  mys- 
terious caller  was  ushered  into  the  sitting-room,  where  the 
only  light  was  from  the  flickering  flames,  and  where  Fosca 
was  still  sitting  in  a  calm,  unruffled  attitude.  He  was  stout 
of  figure,  florid  of  complexion,  and  breathed  heavily,  as  if 
the  ascent  of  the  stairs  had  been  too  much  for  him.  Un- 
able to  see  him  distinctly,  she  leaned  forward,  regarding 
him  with  some  surprise. 

The  light  of  a  leaping  flame  suddenly  fell  full  upon  his 
face,  revealing  his  features,  and  as  she  next  instant  recog- 
nised them,  she  uttered  a  startled  cry  of  dismay,  then  sat 
glaring  at  him.  The  waiter  had  left,  and  they  were  alone 
together. 

'Ah!'  he  exclaimed,  in  French,  in  a  low,  meaning  tone, 
as,  uninvited,  he  walked  across  and  took  a  vacant  chair 
near  her  —  the  one  in  which  Bertram  had  sat.  CI  see  you 
have  not  forgotten.' 

'How  could  I  ever  forget?'  she  gasped,  pale  and 
trembling. 

'No,'  he  answered,  in  a  coarse,  hoarse  voice.  CI  sup- 
pose the  recollection  isn't  very  pleasant.'  He  spoke  French 
almost  perfectly,  yet  his  slight  accent  pronounced  him  an 
Englishman. 

Again  the    furtive    flame   shot    up   and    illuminated    the 


'THAT   WOMAN'S    LOVER'  205 

coarse,  florid  face  with  its  grey  side-whiskers.  The  features 
revealed  were  those  of  the  shambling  recluse  of  Staple  Inn, 
Sir  Douglas  Vizard,  the  man  whose  name  was  on  the  list 
of  patrons  of  many  benevolent  societies  and  religious  insti- 
tutions, and  who  so  often  spoke  at  young  men's  meetings 
at  Exeter   Hall. 

1  And  vou  have  sought  me  out  to  taunt  me  again,  to 
drive  me  to  desperation  —  perhaps  to  suicide!'  she  cried 
bitterly,  glaring  at  him,  her  tiny  hands  clenched,  her  rings 
sparkling  in  the  firelight. 

c  I  have  no  desire  that  vou  should  make  such  a  fool  of 
yourself,  mv  dear,'  he  answered  with  imperturbable  cool- 
ness, sitting  back,  with  his  crossed  legs  stretched  towards 
the  fire.  c  Of  course  I'm  well  aware  that  mv  presence  isn't 
very  welcome,'  he  added  with  mock  politeness.  c  I  really 
couldn't  allow  vou  to  come  to  London  without  paying  you 
a  visit.  I  wrote  asking  vou  to  call  on  me,  but  as  you 
refused,   I   have   come  to  you.' 

She  lifted  her  eves  to  his  with  a  look  of  ineffable  hatred. 

1  Are  you  so  brutal,  so  devoid  of  all  human  svmpathv,  that 
vou  take  a  delight  in  thus  torturing  me  ? '  she  cried  fiercely. 
1  Have  vou  forgotten  the  last  occasion  when  we  met  ?  ' 

1  No ;  I  have  cause  to  remember  it,'  he  answered,  with 
a  sarcastic  laugh.  c  Just  at  the  moment  vou  thought  your- 
self safest  I  turned  up  at  your  hotel  in  Vienna,  like  a  skele- 
ton at  the  feast  —  eh  ? '  And  he  smiled  inwardly  as  he 
saw  the  impression  his  ruthless  words  produced  upon  her. 
1  Surely  you  have  bv  this  time  learnt  that  it  is  impossible  to 
rid  yourself  of  me,'  he  added  ;  '  therefore  why  make  at- 
tempts which   must   alwavs   result  in  your  chagrin  r  ' 

1  Hear  me  !  '  she  cried  in  a  hard,  stern  voice,  rising,  and 
standing  erect  in  defiance  before  him.  l  I  will  rid  myself 
of  you  who  haunt  me  thus  like  some  gaunt  shadow.  There 
is  a  limit  to  human  suffering,  and  you  have  driven   me  very 


2o6  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

near  to  it.  In  these  years  that  have  passed  you  alone  have 
held  me  fettered  within  your  thrall ;  you  alone  have  ren- 
dered me  nervous  and  wretched;  you  alone  have  tortured 
me  until  I  have  a  hundred  times  been  upon  the  verge  of 
suicide.  In  Paris,  when  I  had  no  money,  I  was  unworthy 
your  attention  ;  but  these  last  two  years,  ever  since  we  met 
by  chance  in  the  Montagne  de  la  Cour  in  Brussels,  you 
have  haunted  me  —  in  Berlin,  in  Rome,  in  Vienna,  in  Paris, 
and  now  in  London.      I  hate  you  ! ' 

'And  yet  I  am  mademoiselle's  best  friend  ! '  he  observed 
in  a  half-reproachful  tone. 

'No,'  she  answered;  'my  worst  enemy.  At  intervals 
you  seek  me,  recall  all  the  horrible  past,  and  profit  by  my 
misfortune.' 

1  Have  I  not  saved  you  from  exposure,  disgrace,  and 
even  something  more  terrible  ?  Is  it  not  to  me  alone  that 
vou  owe  everything  ?  ' 

1  But  will  vou  never  forget  ?  '  she  cried  despairingly. 
1  Will  you  never  allow  me  a  respite  of  peace  and  happi- 
ness, or  must  I  hope  only  to  escape  you  by  self-destruction  ? 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  fear  death,  tortured  as  I  ever  am 
bv  these  haunting  remembrances,  these  hideous  ghosts  of 
the  past.' 

She  was  standing  before  him,  an  erect,  elegant  figure,  her 
face  pale  and  determined,  an  air  of  tragedy  in  her  attitude. 

4  Mv  dear  girl,'  he  replied,  with  a  brutal  laugh,  '  your 
life  is  entirelv  in  vour  own  hands,  and  it  really  matters 
nothing  to  me.  If  you  prefer  to  kill  yourself  you  only 
acknowledge  vour  own   cowardice  by  so   doing.' 

4  No,'  she  retorted,  '  you,  yourself,  are  the  coward  to 
treat  a  woman  with  such  cold  cruelty.  Once  you  thought 
the  knowledge  vou  hold  gave  you  power  over  me,  but  you 
were  mistaken.  I  defied  you,'  she  said,  vehemently.  '  I 
still  defy  you  ! ' 


'THAT   WOMAN'S   LOVER'  207 

c  Yes,  yes,'  he  laughed.  c  I've  heard  all  that  fine  talk 
from  your  pretty  lips  before.  Defiance,  however,  is  a  word 
you  shall  expunge  from  your  vocabulary.  Only  those  who 
are  pure  and  honest  can  afford  to  use  that  expression/ 

1  And  I  am  not  ?  '  she  cried,  her  bright  eyes  flashing  in 
anger.      c  You  deliberately  seek  me  out  to  insult  me  ! ' 

L I  have  said  nothing,  my  dear,  to  reflect  upon  your  good 
name,'  he  answered,  a  trifle  more  politely,  fearing  lest, 
losing  control  over  herself,  she  might  create  a  scene.  He 
was  not  prepared  for  that,  because  his  name  and  reputation 
were  too  well  known  in  London. 

4  Then  why  have  you  come  here  ?  '  she  demanded. 

1  Why  did  I  seek  you  last  time,  in  Vienna  ? ' 

c  To  blackmail  me,'  she  answered  boldly. 

He  bowed,  as  though  she  had  paid  him  the  most  deli- 
cate of  compliments.  The  great  brassy  rings  on  his  coarse 
hands  shone  brightly  in  the  fitful  light,  and  from  the  heavy 
albert  across  his  broad  waistcoat  Fosca's  eyes  caught  the 
glint   of  gold. 

'  You  are  determined  to  grow  fat  upon  my  misfortune,' 
she  observed  hoarsely.  '  When  I  was  a  mere  shopgirl  in 
the  Louvre,  you  only  troubled  me  with  your  attentions, 
bringing  me  flowers  and  sweetmeats  during  business  hours, 
and  getting  me  into  trouble  with  the  head  saleswoman. 
But  now,  when  you  know  that  I  can  obtain  money  from 
my  father,  you  are  determined  to  have  the  full  price  of  my 
secret.' 

'  I  gave  you  the  choice  of  an  alternative,'  he  observed 
abruptly. 

'  One  that  was  an  insult  to  my  honour,'  she  cried,  in  a 
voice  of  withering  contempt.  '  One  that  no  honest  woman 
could  accept ! ' 

c  Honest  woman  ! '  he  echoed,  for  the  first  time  betray- 
ing signs  of  impatience.      '  Go  to  the   mirror,  light  the  gas, 


208  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

and  see  whether  your  face  is  that  of  an  honest  woman,'  he 
said,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  anger  and  disgust. 

'  And  you  !  '  she  retorted,  with  a  gesture  of  antipathy. 
1  That  you,  the  bearer  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  hon- 
oured names  in  England,  should  descend  to  gain  a  woman's 
love  by  the  despicable  means  to  which  you  have  resorted, 
can  only  fill  one  with  utter  scorn  and  loathing.' 

'  Are  such  recriminations  of  any  use  ? '  he  asked.  '  Why 
exhaust  the  dictionary  in  this  manner  ?  Surely  your  own 
actions  have  been  far  worse  than  mine.  Rather  let  us 
transact  our  —  shall  we  call  it  business? — and  end  this 
interview.' 

She  paused,  motionless,  statuesque.  Unable  to  stir  a 
muscle,  she  knew  that  she  was  powerless  in  this  man's 
hands  —  that  a  word  from  him  and  an  exposure  would  be 
brought  about,  an  exposure  before  facing  which  she  would 
rather  kill  herself.  Her  life  was  irrevocably  in  the  hands 
of  this  coarse,  brutal  man  who  delighted  in  torturing  her 
with  hideous  remembrances,  as  a  mode  of  holding  her 
cowed  and  terrified. 

1  If  I  thought  we  would  never  meet  again,  I  would 
willingly  pay  you  any  price  you  ask,'  she  said,  in  a  monot- 
onous voice,  as  if  speaking  to  herself. 

'  No,'  he  replied,  with  that  feigned  politeness  which 
aggravated  her.  c  I  would  not  wish  to  put  mademoiselle 
to  inconvenience  for  any  large  amount.  In  fact,  I  prefer 
small  sums.  They  are  much  more  acceptable  just  at  this 
period,  when  things  in  the  City  are  not  over-bright.' 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

c  Then  you  are  resolved  to  taunt  me,  always  ? '  she 
cried.      c  Shall  I  never  escape  your  abominable  attentions? ' 

'I  do  not  intend  that  you  should,  mv  dear,'  he  answered 
coolly.  l  Once  you  defied  me.  I  do  not  think  you  will 
<fo  so  again.' 


'THAT  WOMAN'S    LOVER'  209 

'You  believed  me  a  woman  without  love,  without 
honour,'  she  answered.  c  You  believed  that,  to  safeguard  my 
secret,  I  would  throw  in  my  lot  with  you  —  you  thought 
that  for  you  I  would  discard  the  man  I  loved.' 

c  Loved  !  Bah  ! '  he  cried.  l  And  that  man  to  whom 
you  were  so  devoted  —  how  has  he  treated  you  ?  He  has 
cast  you  aside  and  married.' 

1  Married  !  '  she  gasped,  starting  back,  the  light  dying 
from  her  face.      c  Bertram  Rosmead  married  !      It's  a  lie !  ' 

'  No,'  he  replied,  c  it's  the  truth.  His  wife  is  a  rather 
gav  little  woman,  who  used  to  be  at  the  Adelphi.  She 
comes  to  visit  me  sometimes,  for  we're  quite  old  friends. 
I  knew  her  years  before  she  became  his  wife.' 

'  And  are  they  happy  ?  '  Fosca  inquired  hoarsely,  in  a 
voice  which  showed  that  his  announcement  had  crushed 
from  her  all  hope,  all  desire  for  life. 

'  Happy  ?  No,'  he  laughed.  c  Whv,  she  hates  and 
detests  the  very  sight  of  him.  Whenever  they  have  a 
row  she  comes  round  to  me  and  tells  me  all  about  it.  I'm 
sorry   for  her,  poor  little  woman.' 

Fosca  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then,  fixing  her  dark 
eyes  upon  his  red,  bloated  face,  she  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  said  : 

1  Sorrow,  or  sympathy,  from  your  lips  is  unnecessary. 
If,  as  you  tell  me,  Bertram  has  married,  then  you  are  his 
wife's  lover !  ' 

He  laughed  again  —  a  light,  self-satisfied  laugh. 

«  Well,  and  then  ? ' 

'  In  England  you  have  a  court  for  divorce,'  she  answered, 
very  calmly,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

In  an  instant,  Vizard  recognised  that  his  boast  had 
placed  in  her  hands  a  weapon  wherewith  to  combat  his 
attacks.  His  thick,  red  lips  compressed  tightly.  His 
ready  tongue  had  wrecked  his  chances  once  more,  as  they 

14 


210  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

had  done  times  without  number.  Inwardly  he  declared 
himself  a  fool,  but  outwardly  he  betrayed  no  sign  of 
uneasiness.  For  twenty  years  this  impecunious,  but  philan- 
thropic, baronet  had  led  an  adventurer's  life,  and  his  wits 
had  been  sharpened  by  the  constant  exercise  of  caution 
and  stratagem,  necessary   for  the  derivation  of  a  sourceless 

income. 

1  I  think  Rosmead  made  a  bad  bargain  when  he  married 
her.  She  was  just  the  skittiest  little  girl  that  ever  trod 
the  stage,  while  he's,  from  what  she  says,  a  dull,  heavy- 
browed  boor,  who  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  books  and  his 
writing.' 

The  woman  before  him  took  no  heed  of  his  words. 
She  was  only  reflecting  upon  the  fact  which  he  had  just 
divulged,  kthe  fact  that  the  man  she  loved,  the  man  to 
whom,  that  very  afternoon,  she  had  declared  her  passion, 
was  alreadv  bound  to  a  woman  who  was  worthless.  She 
remembered  Bertram's  hesitation ;  she  recollected  how 
pained  he  had  appeared  when  she  spoke  of  love,  and  that 
he   had    not   once  attempted   to  kiss   her,   or    display    any 

affection. 

No  doubt  existed  in  her  mind  that  he  was  true  to  this 
woman  he  had  married ;  this  woman  who  was  the  mistress 
of  the  mean,  despicable  hypocrite  now  before  her.  Her 
loathing  of  Vizard  was  increased  by  this  knowledge.  She 
hated  him  with  increased  hatred,  because  he  had  so  cruelly 
deceived  the  man  she  loved. 

c  Is  this  the  actual  truth  ?  '  she  asked,  regarding  him  with 
earnest,  unwavering  glance. 

'  Certainly,'  he  answered.  c  Your  lover,  the  man  you 
preferred  to  me,  is  the  husband  of  Lena  Loder,  once 
walking-lady  at  the  Adelphi.' 

4  And  you  are  that  woman's  lover,'  she  cried.  '  You, 
with  this  wretched  woman's   aid,  have  deceived   Bertram, 


' THAT   WOMAN'S   LOVER'  211 

as  you  have  deceived  me  !  It  is  sufficient,  now  that  I 
know  the  truth.  Go,  leave  me  !  '  she  added,  with  im- 
perious gesture  and  heaving  breast.  c  Leave  me,  and 
recollect  that  we  do   not   meet  again.' 

c  Mademoiselle  overlooks  the  object  of  my  visit,'  he  said, 
bowing;. 

c  I  overlook  nothing.  Not  a  single  sou  shall  you  have 
from  me  henceforth,'  she  answered  determinedly. 

c  You  prefer  exposure  and  ruin,'  he  said,  his  manner 
chano-ino;  in  an   instant. 

'  My  future  is  my  own  affair,'  she  retorted,  and,  with  a 
quick  frou-frou  of  her  flounces,  abruptly  left  the  room. 

For  a  few  moments  he  sat  alone  in  the  semi-darkness, 
for  the  fire  had  died  down,  and  no  longer  shed  its  fitful 
light.  His  face  was  blanched  by  anger.  Then,  suddenly, 
with  a  fierce  imprecation  on  his  lips,  he  rose,  and  strode 
out  and  down  the  stairs,  into  the  street. 

c  Bv  heaven  !  woman,  you've  tricked  me,'  he  muttered, 
c  but  the  price  of  your  defiance  is  greater  than  you  imagine, 
more  terrible  than  you've  ever  dreamed.  You  have  chosen 
to  do  this.      Well,  so  let  it  be.' 


CHAPTER   XIX 

AMONG    THE    c  VAGABONDS  ' 

Spring  came,  and  with  it  the  London  season  and  the  Mav 
meetings.  On  the  Evening  Telegraph  the  fair-bearded  gen- 
tleman, whose  grievance  amounted  to  a  chronic  disease, 
was  told  off  to  report  those  Dissenting  assemblies,  and  dur- 
ing the  weeks  they  lasted  the  number  of  free  breakfasts  and 
free  luncheons  he  consumed  resulted  in  the  usual  bilious 
attack,  which  incapacitated  him  for  a  week  afterwards. 
But  the  office  did  not  begrudge  him  the  week's  holiday 
after  three  weeks  of  constant  prayer-meetings,  and  the 
rather  doleful  deliberations  of  those  ecclesiastics  who  c  come 
with  the  Merry  May,'  and  sun  themselves  in  the  busy 
Strand. 

Bertram  Rosmead  worked  on  in  his  dismal  den,  with  the 
constant  click  of  the  telegraph  ever  in  his  ear,  a  life  full  of 
surprises,  as  far  as  news  was  concerned,  for  only  those  who 
live  at  the  end  of  a  telegraph  wire  know  how  every  moment 
brings  some  fresh  sensation  for  which  the  British  public  are 
ready  to  pay  their  nimble  pennies  ;  how  every  fresh  whir-r 
of  the  c  tape '  is  indicative  of  some  event  of  importance, 
from  the  premium  on  gold  at  Buenos  Ayres,  and  the  usual 
weekly  revolution  in  Guatemala,  to  the  latest  complication 
of  European  politics  created  by  Lord  Salisburv's  last  sneeze. 
In  this  little  world  of  whirl  and  bustle,  of  noise  and  turmoil, 
Rosmead  shrunk  within  himself,  worn  and  wearv,  hopeless 
and  despairing.      He  sat  in  his  chair  performing  his  duties 


AMONG   THE   'VAGABONDS'  213 

mechanically,  only  giving  vent,  perhaps,  to  some  remark 
tempered  by  a  biting  sarcasm.  He  had  grown  cold,  inert, 
austere,  and  quite  unlike  his  usual  buoyant  self,  for  he 
dreamed  always  of  Fosca,  yet  with  a  knowledge  that  he 
was  debarred  from  loving  her.  She  had  left  London  with 
the  Marquis,  and  he  knew  not  whither  they  had  gone. 
With  the  sun  of  his  life  blotted  out,  he  held  the  world  in 
contempt,  and  had  now  no  pleasure  beyond  that  derived 
from  the  writing  of  his  novels  in  his  own  dreary  room  in 
that  dismal  court,  called  by  courtesy  an  Inn.  For  recrea- 
tion and  fresh  air  he  would  sometimes  spend  an  idle  hour 
in  that  narrow  thoroughfare  of  second-hand  booksellers, 
Holywell  Street,  a  thoroughfare  which  maintains  through- 
out the  year  an  odour  of  orange-peel,  and  where  literary 
rubbish,  the  sweepings  of  publishers'  warehouses  and  dead 
men's  libraries,  is  shot.  After  his  toilsome  duties  at  the 
newspaper  office,  he  went  home  daily,  eager  to  get  once 
more  to  the  work  he  loved,  the  writing  of  fiction,  a  work 
which  was  to  him  a  pleasure.  Yet,  even  with  the  reputa- 
tion he  had  obtained  and  the  several  books  which  were 
selling  well,  the  profits  were  absurdly  small,  a  fact  at  which 
Lena  was  always  grumbling. 

One  bright  dav  in  June,  however,  he  received  a  note 
from  his  agent,  Mr.  Howden,  and  in  response,  called  and 
saw  his  son.  The  latter,  whose  courtesy  to  all  literary  men 
is  well  known,  and  to  whose  keen  far-sightedness  many  a 
novelist  is  considerably  indebted,  received  him,  and  made 
a  very  pleasing  announcement,  namely,  that  he  had  been 
approached  bv  a  great  syndicate,  the  best  known  in  literary 
circles,  and  one  which  supplied  fiction  to  half  the  news- 
papers in  the  world,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  some  serial 
stories  by  him. 

c  Do  thev  really  want  me  to  write  novels  regularly  for 
their  svndicate  ? '    Rosmead  asked,  surprised. 


2i4  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

4  Certainly.  From  their  letter  it  appears  that  they 
would  want  two  full  novels  a  year  for  three  years,  and  three 
or  four  short  stories  each  year,'  answered  young  Mr. 
Howden,  glancing  at  the  letter  before  him.  '  Do  you  feel 
inclined  to  do  them  ?  Of  course,  we  should  ask  reasonable 
terms.  They  have  many  clients,  and  are  therefore  able  to 
pay  well  for  serial  rights.  Besides,  we  must  also  bear  in 
minH  that  such  publication  of  your  stories  in  America  and 
the  Colonies  gives  you  world-wide  advertisement,  which 
will  help  to  dispose  of  your  American  and  Colonial 
editions.' 

'  I'm  quite  ready  to  sign  contracts,'  Rosmead  said  eagerly. 
1  As  I  told  you  the  other  day,  I  am  exceedingly  anxious  to 
give   up  journalism.' 

'  Well,  here  is,  I  think,  an  excellent  opportunity,'  Mr. 
Howden  said.  'The  terms  I  shall  ask  would  certainly 
secure  vou  a  moderate  income  for  the  next  three  vears.' 

'Then  I  leave  it  entirely  in  your  hands,'  Bertram  said, 
overjoyed  at  thought  of  leaving  London  and  settling  some- 
where in  the  quiet  country,  where  he  could  write  un- 
disturbed in  the  rural  peace  he  loved  so  well.  The 
pleasures  of  town  life  had  long  ago  ceased  to  attract  him. 
He  had  yearned  for  a  quiet  existence  in  a  pretty  cottage  in 
the  country,  away  from  the  sick  hurry  of  the  Press,  where 
he  could  think  and  write.  He  was  essentially  a  dreamer, 
yet  practical  withal,  a  man  who  took  infinite  pains  with 
everything,  although  to  his  fellows  he  was  regarded  as 
careless  and  slap-dash  on  account  of  his  innate  Bohe- 
mian ism. 

c  You  wish  me  to  write  and  suggest  terms  ?  '  asked  Mr. 
Howden,  junior. 

'  Please  do,'  he  replied.  c  Then  when  I  have  signed 
the  contracts  I  shall  leave  London  and  be  able  to  do  some 
reallv   good    work.' 


AMONG  THE   ' VAGABONDS'  215 

c  We  have  every  hope  that  you  will  progress  rapidly,' 
said  his  agent.  '  You  may  rely  that  my  father  and  myself 
will  do  our  utmost  in  your  interests.  In  the  course  of  a 
few  days  I  will  let  you  know  how  the  negotiations  have 
progressed,  and  put  their  proposals  before  you  tor  con- 
sideration.' 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer  they  chatted,  young 
Mr.  Howden  suggesting  that  his  client  should  write  a  few 
magazine  stories,  and  giving  him  some  very  good  advice, 
then  they  parted,  then  Bertram  went  back  to  Dane's  Inn 
highly  gratified,  first  because  the  great  syndicate  should 
have  singled  him  out  as  a  coming  man,  and,  secondly, 
because  by  writing  these  novels  to  run  week  by  week  in 
the  newspapers  he  would  be  free  to  leave  journalism,  and 
realise  the  dream  of  his  life ;  he  would  be  able  to  live 
independently  in  the  country,  and  devote  his  whole  time  to 
fiction. 

Lena,  in  a  soiled  pink  wrapper,  her  hair  undressed, 
although  it  was  one  o'clock,  and  her  slippers  down  at  heel, 
was  cooking  a  chop  when  he  entered.  A  tumbler  of 
whiskev  and  water  stood  on  the  table,  and  the  room  retained 
a  stale  odour  of  spirits  emitted  from  a  dirty  glass  on 
the  mantelshelf.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  face  slightly 
flushed,  and  the  twitching  of  her  mouth  and  eyebrows 
were  sufficient  signs  that  she  had  been  drinking  already 
that  morning.  When  he  related  to  her  what  young  Mr. 
Howden   had  said,  she  turned  quickly,  asking  — 

'Then  you  intend  to  give  up  the  Evening  Tele- 
graph ? ' 

c  Certainly.  I  shall  leave  as  soon  as  possible  after  sign- 
ing the  contracts.' 

c  Why  not  keep  on  both  ? '  she  suggested.  l  The  paper 
is  a  certainty,  and  you  know  how  very  uncertain  novels 
are.' 


216  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

c  No,  Lena,'  he  answered.  l  I  cannot  do  both  well. 
I'm  content  to  live  economically  in  the  country  and  work, 
and  I'm  sure  you  won't  deny  me  this  chance  of  success.' 

c  You  won't  get  me  to  live  in  the  country.  I  had 
enough  of  it  at  Hounslow.  You  like  dead-alive  holes ;  I 
don't,'  she  answered  in  sudden  anger.  c  If  you  like  to 
leave  London,  do  ;   but  I  shall  stay  here.' 

I  I  intend  to  live  in  the  country7,'  he  replied  quite 
calmly ;  adding,  c  Reflect,  Lena,  and  you  will  see  that  it  is 
to  our  mutual  advantage  that  I  should  do  so.  We  could 
come  to  town  sometimes,  you  know.  Surely  summer  in 
the  bright,  open  country,  with  fresh  air  and  flowers,  is 
better  than  this  dark,  grimy  old  Inn,  dismal  even  on  the 
brightest  day.  The  country  is  healthier,  too,  for  both  of 
us.' 

I I  hate  it.  I'm  London  born,  and  am  always  better  in 
London  than  anywhere  else,'  she  replied  petulantly. 

'And  you  wish  to  keep  me  here,'  he  said  impatiently. 
1  You  would  even  wreck  my  life  more  than  it  has  already 
been  wrecked  ? ' 

'  Oh,  give  up  vour  work,  if  you  like,  and  go  and  bury 
yourself  in  the  country,'  she  answered.  c  I  suppose  you've 
grown  lazy,  if  the  real  truth  were  known.  All  this  flattery 
has  made  vou  unbearably  vain.' 

1 1  don't  think  I'm  vain,'  he  answered.  l  Praise  in  the 
Press  and  personal  paragraphs  are  the  food  on  which  a 
reputation  is  fed.' 

1  Well,  go  and  live  in  the  country,  and  you'll  soon  find 
that  even-body  will  forget  you.  But  if  you  go,  you'll  go 
by  yourself.      I  shan't.' 

He  did  not  reply.  Strange,  he  thought,  that  she  should 
prefer  London  to  a  pretty  country  cottage.  Strange  that  she 
should  prefer  to  clean  her  own  rooms  and  cook  her  own 
meals  to  employing  a  servant..     But  of  late,  since  she   had 


AMONG   THE    'VAGABONDS'  217 

developed  the  alcoholic  habit,  she  had  ceased  to  care  for 
her  home,  for  her  personal  appearance,  for  anything. 
During  the  whole  of  the  past  year  she  had  never,  on  one 
occasion,  sewn  on  a  button  or  mended  anything.  His  own 
buttons  he  sewed  himself,  as  he  had  done  in  his  bachelor 
days.  When  she  was  not  cooking  and  washing  up  dishes, 
she  slept.  She  never  read  a  book,  and  hated  needlework. 
He  knew  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  her ;  for  in  her 
highly  nervous  state  she  would  only  fly  into  a  passion,  and 
pour  forth  upon  him  a  torrent  of  abuse. 

That  night  he  went  to  the  usual  monthly  dinner  of  the 
Vagabond  Club,  a  society  formed  among  literary  men  and 
artists  for  the  purpose  of  dining  together  once  a  month  at 
the  Holborn  Restaurant.  The  dinners  were  always  enjoy- 
able, attended  as  they  are  by  the  most  prominent  notab'ilit'es 
litteraires,  the  guest  of  the  evening  being  one  of  the  men  of 
the  hour,  a  great  painter,  a  great  explorer,  a  great  soldier, 
and  a  great  writer.  In  the  early  davs  of  the  formation  of 
the  Club  by  Marston,  Hall  Caine,  and  a  few  others,  it  was 
an  honour  to  be  elected,  and  Rosmead,  as  one  of  the  origi- 
nal members,  was  always  constant  in  his  attendance,  usually 
sitting  with  his  friend,  the  editor  of  the  literary  journal  to 
which  he  contributed  reviews ;  Teddy  O'Donovan,  the 
painter ;  and  George  Grainger,  the  well-known  writer 
whose  line  of  romance  was  very  similar  to  his  own. 
Sometimes  his  publisher,  a  happy,  jovial  man,  would  join 
them,  and  after  much  gossip  and  c  shop,'  the  discussion  of 
new  books  and  pictures,  wherein  criticism  was  often  more 
pointed  than  polite,  the  little  party  would  adjourn  with 
Rosmead  down  to  the  Lyric  Club,  where  a  further  pleasant 
hour  would  be  spent  over  whiskey  and  cigars. 

These  evenings  were  pleasant  breaks  to  Bertram's  other- 
wise monotonous  existence,  for  they  had  a  smack  of  the 
Bohemianism  of  the  past   in  them,  and  all  the  men  he  met 


218  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

were  on  equal  footing,  as  men  should  ever  be  in  Bohemia. 
There  were,  of  course,  one  or  two  of  those  egotistical  ones 
dubbed  l  bounders/  men  whose  self-esteem  was  greater  than 
the  excellence  of  their  work ;  but  they  were  classed  as  out- 
siders, and  only  regarded  as  peculiar  specimens  of  the  liter- 
ary genus.  Not  only  was  the  function  one  of  pleasure, 
but  often  a  considerable  amount  of  business  was  transacted 
between  editors  and  authors  across  that  board,  and  more 
than  once  Rosmead  had  found  that  introductions  at  this 
informal  feast  were  of  the  greatest  use  afterwards.  Usually 
about  three  hundred  'Vagabonds'  and  their  friends  sat 
down,  a  gathering  which  was  unique,  comprising  as  it  did 
half  the  literary  talent  of  England.  Over  dinner  the  gossip 
was  always  merry,  and  the  criticisms  caustic ;  but  after- 
wards a  popular  entertainer  would  entertain  his  brother 
1  Vagabonds/  a  prima-donna  would  sing  a  song  or  two,  or 
that  talented  black-and-white  artist  of'  Punch,'  Mr.  March, 
would  depict  upon  huge  sheets  of  paper  caricatures  of  some 
London  types. 

This  evening  was  a  particularly  good  one.  The  room 
was  crowded,  the  guest  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  our 
younger  humorists,  whose  speech  was  uproariously  funny, 
and  the  men  about  Rosmead  were  all  men  he  knew  inti- 
mately, a  happy,  laughing  crowd  of  writers,  painters,  and 
critics. 

He  had  already  confided  in  his  friend  and  editor  his 
domestic  infelicity,  and  now  told  him  of  his  intention  of 
leaving  London.  The  editor  was  a  calm,  philosophical, 
but  extremely  sympathetic  man.  He  numbered  Rosmead 
among  his  small  circle  of  most  intimate  friends,  and  had 
for  a  long  while  been  pained  by  the  knowledge  of  Lena's 
intemperance. 

4  It's  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  my  dear  boy,'  his  friend 
said.      c  If  you  go  away  from  London,  down  to  some  quiet 


AMONG  THE    'VAGABONDS'  219 

country  village,  she  won't  be  able  to  get  drink,  and  may 
perhaps  be  weaned  from  it.' 

'  Then  you  advise  me  to  give  up  journalism  ? ' 

c  By  all  means,  under  the  circumstances,'  his  editor 
replied.  '  Your  contracts  will  keep  you  going,  and  it's 
really  impossible  to  combine  fiction  with  daily  journalism. 
How  you've  done  it  for  so  long  I  can't  think.' 

'Sometimes  I'm  surprised  myself,'  Rosmead  replied. 
c  By  a  bit  of  perseverance,  I   suppose.' 

c  A  bit  !  '  the  editor  cried.  '  You've  got  more  than 
your  fair  share,  I  think.  I  only  wish  I  had  the  patience 
and  steady  plodding  methods  that  you    have.' 

But  Bertram  laughed  lightly,  and  declared  that  he  had 
had  but  one  object  in  view,  namely  to  obtain  a  name  as  a 
novelist,  and  to  that  end  had  boldly  faced  misfortune,  and 
gradually   managed  to   surmount   every   difficulty. 

'  You  deserve  every  success,  my  dear  Rosmead,'  ex- 
claimed the  elder  man,  gravely ;  '  you'll  reap  the  reward  of 
all  your  trials  and  troubles  some  day.' 

'  I  hope  so,'  observed  the  younger  man,  with  a  sigh,  and 
lowering  his  voice  he  added,  c  God  knows  I've  had  enough 
this  last  year  or  so.' 

The  editor  nodded.  He  knew  well  the  wretched  story, 
and  was  grieved  that  his  friend  should  be  situated  thus. 

Meanwhile,  Lena,  having  assured  her  husband  that  she 
was  going  to  spend  the  evening  with  her  mother  in  Gough 
Square,  and  asked  him  to  call  for  her  at  eleven  to  take  her 
home,  dressed  and  went  round  to  Staple  Inn  instead. 

1  Well,  how  are  you  to-night,  old  boy  ?  '  she  asked  the 
wheezy,  shuffling  baronet  as  he  opened  the  door  and  ad- 
mitted her  to  his  stuffy,  shabby  chambers.  c  I  thought  I'd 
look  round  and  see  that  you're  still  alive.  My  beauty's 
gone  out  to  the  "  Vagabonds."  ' 

'And   to-night    you're   a    Vagabondess  —  eh?'  laughed 


220  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

Vizard,  setting  down  the  lamp  and  drawing  forward  one  of 
his  rickety  armchairs. 

c  Yes,  I'm  thirsty,'  she  said,  disregarding  his  invitation  to 
be  seated  ;  but  drawing  off  her  gloves  she  went  to  the  side- 
board and  took  out  a  bottle  of  gin. 

I  Shall  I  get  some  water  ?  '  asked  the  baronet. 

4  Water  ?  No,  fool  !  '  she  answered.  '  You  know  I 
never  spoil  good  spirits.  Water's  apt  to  get  on  your  brain, 
you  know,'  and  she  laughed  an  idiotic  laugh,  for  she  had 
been  drinking  all  day,  and  was  muddled. 

She  poured  out  some  in  a  wine-glass,  and  drank  it  off 
at  one  gulp,  then  taking  off  her  hat  and  tossing  it  upon  the 
couch,  flung  herself  into  the  armchair  and  commenced  to 
chaff  him. 

I I  shan't  be  able  to  come  and  look  you  up  much  longer,' 
she  said  at  last,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  table,  whereon  there 
lay  some  Gospel  tracts  and  leaflets  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land Temperance  Society.  He  sat  back  heavily  in  his  chair, 
looking  at  her. 

1  Why,  my  dear  ? '  he  asked  in  surprise. 

I  Because  we're  going  to  move  into  the  country.  He's 
decided  at  last,  and  won't  hear  a  word  to  the  contrary.' 

c  Well,  you  needn't  go  far  from  town,  and  you  can  make 
excuses  to  come  up  often.  Surely  that's  easy  enough.  He 
lets  you  have  your  own  way  entirely.' 

'  He  has  to.  If  he  don't,  he  don't  have  much  peace,  1 
can  tell  you,'  she  laughed. 

He  smiled  broadly,  displaying  a  very  bad  set  of  teeth 
discoloured  by  smoking. 

I I  know  you're  a  capricious  little  person,'  he  said.  '  It's 
a  good  job  you've  got  such  an  easy-going  husband,  or  you 
wouldn't  be  able  to  enjoy  yourself  as  you  do.  Nine  men 
out  of  ten  would  have  suspected  vou  long  ago.' 

4  Suspect ! '  she  cried,  her  eyes  shifty  on  account  of  her 


AMONG   THE    'VAGABONDS'  221 

inebriety.     1 1  don't  care  what  he  suspects.     If  he  likes  to 
be  a  hermit,  I  don't  intend  to  live  like  a  nun.' 

c  There's  certainly  nothing  nun-like  about  you,  my  dear,' 
he  answered,  laughing.  c  But  if  I  were  you  I'd  humour 
him  a  bit.  Remember,  if  he  left  you,  you'd  be  pretty  hard 
up.' 

c  Left  me  !  '  she  echoed.  c  If  he  did  I'd  want  half  the 
money  he  gets  from  his  books.  I'd  be  happy  enough  to 
see  the  back  of  him,  I  can  tell  you.  But  what  do  you 
advise  me  to  do  ? '  she  asked,  looking  at  him  seriously. 
1  Shall  I  go  into  the  country  for  a  bit  just  to  please  him ; 
or  shall   I  resolve   to  stay   in   London  ? ' 

'  Take  my  tip,  my  dear,  and  please  him  just  for  once. 
Excuses  to  come  to  London  are  easily  made.  He  can't  re- 
fuse to  let  you  come  to  see  your  poor  mother,  for  instance.' 
Then  for  a  moment  he  wondered  what  the  tea-drinkers  of 
Exeter  Hall  would  think  of  him  if  they  could  have  heard 
that  pharisaical  speech. 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  ;  she  had  thrown  her- 
self back  in  her  chair,  revealing  her  tawdrv  untidiness  in 
dress,  her  boots  only  half  laced,  her  hair  uncurled,  her  hands 
dirty,  and  her  unwashed  face  so  carelessly  daubed  with 
glycerine   and   chalk  that   she  looked   almost  ghastly. 

1  I  hate  the  miserable  cur !  '  she  said  between  her  teeth. 
c  He  knows  I  like  London,  and  just  because  I'm  able  to 
have  a  bit  of  pleasure,  going  to  the  halls  and  seeing  friends, 
he  means  to  take  me  out  of  it.' 

c  Poor  little  girl  !  '  the  bloated  old  man  exclaimed.  c  You 
don't  seem  to  have  a  verv  pleasant  time  of  it.' 

c  Pleasant  !  I  only  wish  I  hadn't  left  the  theatre,'  she 
answered. 

c  But  you  are  married,  vou  know,'  he  said  ;  c  and  your  hus- 
band's a  rising  man.      You  ought  to  be  proud  of  him.' 

c  Oh  !   of  course  I  am,'  she  replied  sarcastically.     l  What 


222  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

the  papers  say  of  his  rubbishy  books  is  all  bunkum.  He 
fancies  he  can  write,  like  lots  of  other  people,  and  he's 
become  as  vain  as  a  peacock.  I'm  not  good  enough  for 
him  to  take  to  those  swell  receptions  and  u  At  homes." 
He  told  me  once  that  I  disgraced  him,  just  because  we 
went  to  see  a  friend  over  at  Notting  Hill,  and  I  drank  two 
glasses  of  whiskey  there.  The  room  was  very  hot  and  — 
well  it  upset  me/ 

'  I  tell  you  what  I  think,  my  dear,'  her  companion  said. 
1  You  take  a  little  too  much,  sometimes.' 

'  Ah,'  she  sighed,  c  I'm  not  well.  My  nerves  are  all  un- 
strung, and  the  slightest  drop  upsets  me.  It  never  used 
to.' 

He  saw  that  her  hands  trembled,  and  that  she  bore  out- 
ward traces  of  unusually  heavy  drinking. 

c  I  think  if  you  were  a  little  more  moderate  your  life  at 
home  would  be  much  more  happy,'  he  observed,  puffing  at 
his  foul  pipe,  and  leering  across  at  her. 

'Oh!'  she  cried,  with  instant  resentment;  'so  you're 
going  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  temperance,  are  you  ?  Well, 
you  can  just  dry  up  once  for  all,  and  keep  your  arguments 
for  the  good  young  men.  I  please  myself,  whether  it 
pleases  you  or  not.' 

'  My  dear  girl,  I  assure  you  I  didn't  intend  my  remarks 
in  that  sense,'  he  hastened  to  assure  her. 

'You'll  lecture  me  next  on  my  duty  towards  my  hus- 
band, I  suppose  ?  '  she  went  on  angrily.  '  You're  a  pretty 
one  to  give  anybody  advice  on  the  drink  question.  Re- 
serve that  for  your  next  speech  to  young  men  at  Exeter 
Hall.  You  pose  beautifully  as  a  moralist,  but  it's  your 
name,  of  course,  that  does   it.' 

'  I  merely  give  you  advice,'  he  protested,  with  a  grim 
smile.  '  I'm  sorry  you're  so  unhappy,  but  I  can't  assist 
you,  can  I  ? ' 


AMONG   THE   'VAGABONDS'  223 

c  I  don't  want  your  precious  assistance,'  she  answered 
with  ill-temper.  *  Indeed,  it's  I  who  have  assisted  you,  I 
think  you'll  admit,  when  you  recollect  the  money  I've 
scraped  out  of  my  housekeeping  allowance  and  given  to 
you  when  you've  been  hard  up.' 

1  Yes,  yes,'  he  admitted,  moving  uneasily  in  his  chair,  for 
he  did  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  her.  c  You've  been  a  good 
little  girl.  It's  a  pity  Rosmead  don't  appreciate  you,  but  I 
suppose  the  detestation   is  mutual.' 

'  Of  course  it  is,'  she  replied.  l  Sometimes  of  late  I've 
almost  believed  that  he's  mashed  on  somebodv  else,  but 
somehow  he's  so  cold  and  morose,  so  utterly  wean"  of  every- 
thing, that  I  don't  believe  there's  a  woman  in  this  world 
who  could  stir  up  a  single  spark  of  love  in  his  heart.  It's 
as  hard  as  stone.' 

The  baronet  crossed  his  slippered  feet,  looked  at  her 
earnestly,   and  wheezed   heavily. 

1  Has  he  never  spoken  of  any  woman  he  knew  before 
he  met  you  ? '  he  asked.  '  Of  any  little  romance  of  his 
past  ? ' 

c  I  don't  remember,'  she  answered.    c  I  don't  think  he  has.' 

1  Has  he  never  mentioned  a  woman  named  Fosca  ?  ' 

In  an  instant  her  face  blanched  to  the  lips.  Her  mouth 
remained  open  in  dismay,  and  her  eyes  betrayed  a  strange 
terror. 

c  Fosca  ?  No,'  she  faltered  in  a  trembling  voice.  'Who 
is  Fosca  ? ' 

c  Fosca  Farini,  the  woman  he  loves,'  the  old  man  replied. 

1  Who  is  she  ?  Where  does  she  live  ? '  Lena  cried,  start- 
ing from  her  chair  in  an  instant,  consumed  by  fierce,  uncon- 
trollable jealousy.      '  Tell  me.' 

1  No,'  the  baronet  replied  calmly,  watching  her.  l  I  am 
not  aware  of  any  of  the  facts.  I  only  know  her  name. 
Nothing  else.      Yet  I  thought   it  a  fact  which   you  might 


224  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

care  to  know.  Of  course  the  source  of  your  information 
must  remain  a  secret.     Recollect  that.' 

'  But  you  know  more  than  you'll  tell  me,'  she  cried. 
1  Come,  we  are  old  enough  friends  that  you  need  have 
no  secrets  from  me.  Does  he  meet  her  at  those  grand 
receptions  ? ' 

1 1  am  aware  of  nothing  further,'  he  answered,  inwardly 
delighted  at  having  thus  aroused  her  jealousy.  '  Now  that 
you  know  the  woman's  name,  find  out  for  yourself.  Only 
act  with  discretion.     You  understand.' 

1  She's  a  foreigner,  isn't  she  ?  ' 

c  I  suppose  so,  from  her  name.'  Then,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added,  '  I  know  nothing  of  her  —  nothing.' 


CHAPTER   XX 

A    c  PAR  '    IN    THE    PAPERS 

Bertram  Rosmead  put  down  his  pen,  leaned  back  in  his 
writing-chair,  and,  clasping  both  hands  behind  his  head, 
read  through  the  little  French  poem  he  had  just  written  at 
the  request  of  a  magazine-editor.  He  had  called  it  c  La 
Chanson  de  Bulburie,'  and  the  opening  read  as  follows  :  — 

Au  clair  de  lune,  en  Tartarie, 
Au  clair  de  lune,  lentement  ; 
Chante  la  svelte  Bulburie, 
La  Fee  aux  yeux  de  diamant. 
Au  clair  de  lune,  sur  la  greve, 
Elle  chante,  chante  sans  treve, 
Des  airs  d'amour,  des  airs  de  reve 

Et  de  langueur, 
Sur  un  luth  d'or  a  voix  si  pure 
Que  la  mer  danse  a  son  murmure, 
Et  chaque  astre  bat  en  mesure, 

Comme  un  grand  coeur. 

The  September  afternoon  was  hot,  but  the  windows  of 
his  pleasant  little  study  opened  out  upon  a  pretty  lawn 
flanked  by  a  high  priyet  hedge,  with  a  large  apple  orchard 
beyond.  From  outside  was  wafted  in  the  sweet  scent  of 
roses  and  heliotrope,  and  the  distant  sound  of  children's 
yoices  told  him  that  it  was  already  four  o'clock,  and  the 
village  school  was  oyer.  The  room  was  not  large,  but  was 
well  filled  with  books,  while  on  the  walls  were  many  framed 
originals   of  illustrations  of  his   stories    in    the    magazines, 

J5 


226  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

together  with  a  copy  of  a  large  picture-poster  which  at 
that  moment  was  on  half  the  hoardings  in  London  and  the 
provincial  towns,  advertising  one  of  his  serial  stories  in  a 
Sunday  paper.  His  writing-table  was  placed  in  the  em- 
brasure of  the  window,  and  from  where  he  sat  his  eyes 
rested  upon  a  level  expanse  of  lawn,  fresh  and  green  after 
the  rain  of  the  previous   night. 

The  house  was  a  good-sized,  old-fashioned  one,  standing 
at  the  end  of  the  pretty  village  of  Malstead,  in  Sussex,  a 
remote  little  place,  scarcely  more  than  a  hamlet,  three  miles 
from  the  rail,  and  about  forty  from  London.  Its  surround- 
ings were  most  picturesque,  the  views  of  the  Downs  from 
his  windows  were  fine  and  extensive,  and  the  air  was  fresh 
and  delightful  after  those  dingy  chambers  wherein  he  had 
been  cramped  and  stifled   for  so  long. 

His  last  book  had  been  a  success,  and,  with  the  money 
his  publisher  had  advanced  him  on  account  of  prospective 
royalties,  he  had  furnished  the  place  well,  and  had  estab- 
lished a  home  replete  with  every  comfort.  The  house  was 
an  ideal  one  for  a  literary  man,  standing  far  back  in  its  own 
grounds,  quiet  and  secluded,  with  a  fine  garden  filled  with  a 
wealth  of  old-world  flowers.  Bertram's  studv  was  com- 
fortable ;  the  contracts  Mr.  Howden  had  arranged  for  him 
were  at  prices  which  far  exceeded  his  most  sanguine  expec- 
tations, and  he  was  now  well  on  his  way  to  make  a  mark 
in  the  literary  world.  The  onlv  cloud  upon  his  happiness 
arose  from  Lena's  constant  worn*  and  her  growing  intem- 
perance. She  hated  the  country,  she  declared ;  she  termed 
Malstead  c  a  dull  hole,'  and  took  no  interest  whatever  either 
in  her  house,  the  village,  or  her  husband's  work.  From  the 
first  moment  she  set  foot  in  the  peaceful  old  place,  she  de- 
tested it  ;  she  never  once  expressed  a  wish  to  explore  the 
neighbourhood,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she  intended  to 
make  her  husband's  life  an  increased  burden  to  him.      So 


A   'PAR'    IN   THE    PAPERS  227 

many,  indeed,  were  their  quarrels  that  he  now  adopted  the 
expedient  of  retiring  to  his  study,  locking  the  door,  and 
working  on  without  interruption.  Had  he  not  done  this, 
writing  would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  in  such 
circumstances. 

In  the  diary  before  him  were  copies  of  his  contracts  for 
serial  stories,  short  stories,  and  novels,  sufficient  to  keep 
him  busily  employed  for  the  next  three  years,  and  he  found 
he  could  work  twice  as  well  in  the  country  as  he  had  done 
in  London,  for  his  head  was  clearer,  and  when  he  entered 
his  studv  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  often  wrote 
as  much  before  breakfasting  as  he  did  during  a  whole  day 
in  Dane's  Inn.  He  had  striven  valiantly  to  place  all 
thought  of  Fosca  from  his  mind,  and  had  nearly  succeeded. 
In  one  of  the  drawers  of  his  writing-table  there  reposed  a 
portrait  of  her,  which  she  had  sent  him  a  couple  of  months 
ago  without  word  or  letter.  It  had  been  posted  in  New 
York,  and  from  that  he  knew  she  was  in  the  States,  where 
1 II  Parpaglione  '  was  creating  a  great  furore.  Sometimes, 
in  his  melancholv  hours,  he  would  take  it  out,  and  gaze 
upon  it  long  and  earnestly,  then,  sighing,  he  would  lock  it 
awav  again   as  the  one   secret   of  his   heart. 

The  French  verses  satisfied  him,  after  one  or  two  altera- 
tions. Then,  placing  them  in  an  envelope,  he  put  the 
letter  aside,  ready  for  the  post.  Again  he  drew  his  manu- 
script paper  before  him,  ran  his  fingers  slowly  through  his 
hair,  and,  taking  up  his  pen,  recommenced  writing  the  con- 
clusion of  a  London  mystery  which  was  to  appear  in  the 
great  svndicate  of  newspapers  in  England,  America,  Aus- 
tralia, India,  and  China,  for  which  he  had  contracted  to 
write  it. 

For  fully  half-an-hour  he  wrote  on,  until  a  voice  at  his 
elbow  said  — 

1  Your  tea,  sir.' 


228  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

He  turned  and  found  Lucy,  the  dark-eyed  housemaid, 
neat  in  her  frilled  cap  and  apron,  with  his  cup  of  tea  upon 
a  tray.  Like  most  men  who  write,  he  could  not  live  with- 
out tea,  and  at  half-past  four  it  was  his  habit  to  swallow  a 
cupful   as  a  stimulant. 

He  took  it  'from  her,  and,  drinking  it  without  putting 
down  his  pen,  replaced  the  cup  on  the  tray.  Then  he  bent 
to  resume  the  dialogue  in  which  he  had  been  interrupted. 
The  girl,  however,  did  not  leave  the  room,  and  he  turned 
and  glanced  at  her  inquiringly. 

'Please,  sir,'  she  exclaimed  in  a  faltering  tone,  c  I  hope 
I  don't  disturb  you,  but  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  a  moment.' 

c  Well,  what  is  it,  Lucy  ?  '  he  asked,  placing  his  pen 
upon  the  blotting  pad,  and  regarding  her  with  some 
surprise. 

1  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,  but  I  shall  have  to  leave  !  ' 

'  Why  ? ' 

1  Because  of  mistress.  Life  with  her  is  simply  wretched. 
Half  the  day  she  doesn't  know  what  she  does  or  says. 
And  you,  sir,  what  a  life  you  lead !  Excuse  me  for  say- 
ing so.' 

He  looked  at  the  maid,  and  stifled  a  sigh. 

'  So  even  you  sympathise  with  me,  Lucy  ?  '  he  mur- 
mured. c  Yes  ;  my  life  is  not  over-pleasant,  but,  of  course, 
there  are  little  domestic  troubles  in  every  family.  Have 
you  given   notice   to  your   mistress  ? ' 

cYes,  sir.  I  did  so  after  luncheon,  and  she  said  that  I 
could   go  at   once,   if  I   liked.' 

'  But  you  won't  go  ?  '  he  urged.  '  Since  you  have  been 
with  us,  I'm  sure  you've  been  an  excellent  maid.  I'll  talk 
to  my  wife,  and  see  whether  we  can't  settle  things  amicably.' 

1  Mistress  has  gone  to  London,'  the  girl  said. 

c  Gone  to  London  !  '   he  exclaimed,  surprised. 

1  Yes ;    she    went   by  the   two   o'clock   train    from    East 


A   'PAR'    IN   THE   PAPERS  229 

Grinstead,  and  told   me  to  tell  you,  that  as  you  refused  to 
Jet  her  go   up    to   see   her   mother,   she    had   gone    without 
your  sanction,  and  that  she  should  stay  two  or  three  days.' 
He   was   silent.      At    luncheon    he   had    found   her   in   a 
half-intoxicated   state,  and   she  had  demanded  him  to  write 
to    London   for    a    fresh   supply    of   whiskey,  but    he   had 
refused ;   whereupon  she  had  instantly  flown  into  an   angry 
passion,  and  began  to  abuse   him   in  such  a  manner,  while 
Lucy  was  waiting  at  table,  that  he  had   risen  when  half- 
through   his  meal,  as   he  was  often  compelled  to  do,  and 
seek  peace  in  his  study.     Since  then  he  had  not  seen  her, 
but  she  had   apparently  made  this  an  excuse  to  go  to  Lon- 
don.     He   attributed    her  craving   for  London   to   the   fact 
that  she  could  obtain  drink  there,  while  at  Malstead  there 
was   only   one  village  inn,  of  so   low   a  character   that    she 
could   not   with  any   sense    of  propriety    enter   there.      He 
never  once  suspected  her  of  having  any  further  attraction  in 
town.      Honest,  upright,  and  just,  he  always  judged  others 
from  his  own  standpoint. 

'Cook  savs  that  she's  going,  too,'  continued  Lucy. 
c  From  morning  till  night  mistress  is  nagging  at  her,  and 
never  seems  pleased  with  anything.' 

8  It  is  my  misfortune,'  her  master  answered.  ' 1  regret 
this  very  much,  and  if  it  lay  in  my  power  I  would  remedy 
it.      You,  however,  are  well  aware  of  my  position.' 

1  Yes,  sir,'  answered  the  girl  ;  c  cook  and  me  are  always 
saying  how  sorry  we  are  for  you.  She  never  lets  you  have 
a  moment's  rest.' 

He  smiled  bitterly.  There  was  a  grimness  in  this 
sympathy,  on  the  part  of  maidservants,  for  a  man  whose 
name  was  known  to  half  the  reading  public  of  the  English- 
speaking  race,  a  man  who  had  been  hailed  by  critics  as  one 
of  the  most  popular  writers  of  the  day.  Even  his  two 
servants  pitied  him. 


230  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

CI  want  you  to  grant  me  a  favour,'  he  said,  speaking 
politely,  as  he  ever  did  to  those  about  him.  '  I  know  this 
is  a  very  uncomfortable  household,  but  I  trust  that  neither 
cook  nor  yourself  will  gossip  to  other  servants  in  the 
neighbourhood  about  my  wife's  little  weakness.  I'm  sure 
you  will  both  carry  out  my  wishes  in  this  respect.' 

1 1  don't  intend  to  breathe  a  word  to  a  soul,'  Lucy 
answered  ;  c  and  I'm  sure  when  I  tell  cook  she  won't  utter 
a  syllable.  You've  always  been  so  kind  and  considerate 
towards  us.' 

1  Did  my  wife  leave  no  further  message  ? ' 

1  No,  sir.' 

c  But  she  had  no  money,'  he  observed.  He  would  not 
allow  her  to  have  money,  for  she  only  spent  it  in  drink. 
Of  late  he  had  taken  to  paying  the  household  expenses 
himself. 

1  She  said  that  you  refused  to  give  her  a  farthing,  and  she 
borrowed  six  shillings  from  cook.' 

1  Six  shillings  !  Why,  that's  only  just  the  fare,'  he 
observed. 

1  She  said  that  she  could  pawn  her  rings  and  brace- 
let when  she  got  to  town,'  the  girl  replied,  with  some 
hesitation. 

His  lips  compressed.  In  his  dark,  serious  eyes  there  was 
a  suspicion  of  tears. 

c  Very  well,'  he  said  hoarsely.  c  Now  that  she's  gone  off 
in  this  manner,  I  suppose  there's  no  stopping  her.  But  I 
—  I'm  busy  now,  Lucy,'  and  with  a  lump  rising  in  his 
throat,  he  turned  towards  his  table  again,  while  the  neat 
maidservant  went  out,  not  without  noticing  the  effect  her 
words  had  had  upon  him. 

When  she  had  gone  he  rose,  and,  standing  at  the  window, 
gazed  sadly  across  the  lawn.  Here,  in  this  rural  peace,  he 
had  all  that  made  life  enjoyable,  —  health,  fame,  comfort, — 


A   'PAR'    IX   THE    PAPERS  231 

all  except  the  one  thing  he  yearned  most  for,  the  love  of  a 
true-hearted,  kind,  and  sympathetic  woman.  Even  the 
words  of  this  dark-eved,  rather  smart  maid  had  gratified 
him,  because,  lonelv  man  that  he  was,  a  word  of  sympathy 
always  touched  his  heart  deeply,  piercing  the  armour  of 
callousness  with  which  he  shielded  himself  from  his  wife's 
cruel  words. 

Lena  had  taken  her  jewels,  those  little  trinkets  he  had 
bought  as  a  pleasant  surprise  for  her  after  so  much  scraping 
and  screwing,  often  denying  himself  cigarettes  in  order  to 
save  money  to  purchase  them.  He  stood  motionless,  pon- 
dering deeply. 

All  was  useless.  He  had  taken  that  house  and  furnished 
it  well  in  order  to  keep  her  from  her  besetting  sin,  but  she 
had  evaded  him.  She  had  gone  to  London  to  plunge  into 
that  debauchery  which  so  sickened  him.  As  he  had  sat 
opposite  her  at  luncheon  she  had  jeered  at  him,  saying  — 

1  You  believe  yourself  a  fine  gentleman,  setting  up  this 
country  house.  But  it  won't  last  for  long.  You'll  soon 
have  to  eo  back  to  work  again  in  London.      Recollect  my 

words.' 

He  wondered  whether  such  fate  would  ever  befall  him. 
He  shuddered  when  he  recollected  the  dark,  dismal  den 
wherein  he  had  toiled  for  so  long,  that  stuffy  room  where 
not  a  rav  of  sunlight  penetrated,  and  where  the  only  light 
was  that  reflected  by  mirrors  hung  outside  the  windows. 
No  ;  while  he  had  breath  he  would  strive  to  keep  away  from 
London.  Slowly,  but  surely,  he  had  grown  famous,  and 
in  London  many  houses  were  open  to  him,  but  with  Lena 
ever  hampering  him,  he  had  resolved  to  cut  himself  off  from 
it  all.  The  l  Vagabond  '  dinners  were  the  only  festivities 
he  now  attended.  All  invitations  he  firmly  declined,  plead- 
ing press  of  work  or  some  other  equally  good  excuse. 

He  left  the  study  and  slowly  crossed  into  the  drawing- 


232  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

room,  a  good-sized  apartment,  furnished  with  great  taste 
and  considerable  elegance.  The  Chippendale  furniture 
was  upholstered  in  blue  silk,  the  cosy-corner,  in  white  and 
terra-cotta,  was  wide  and  comfortable,  with  curtains  to 
keep  off  draughts  ;  a  piano  stood  cross-wise,  and  upon  the 
side-table  were  some  signed  portraits  of  notable  authors. 
About  the  room  were  many  curios  and  nick-nacks.  The 
niches  above  the  cosy-corner  were  filled  with  old  oriental 
china,  and  here  and  there  in  shelves  and  odd  corners  were 
scattered  books  of  all  sorts.  The  carpet  was  soft,  the  air 
which  came  in  from  the  garden  was  warm  and  heavy  with 
the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  altogether  the  room  was  an 
apartment  which  any  woman  might  have  envied. 

He  glanced  around  it,  and  sighed  as  his  eye  caught  an 
object  upon  the  little  pearl-inlaid  coffee-stool  standing  near 
the  cosy-corner.  It  was  an  empty  glass,  and  it  told  its  own 
story. 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and  surveyed  it. 

'  Only  two  months  here,'  he  murmured  dejectedly,  c  yet 
it  must  all  go  —  all.  I've  tried  every  expedient  except  one, 
that  of  travelling.  I'll  sell  all  this,  and  take  her  abroad,' 
and  he  sighed.  (  Once,'  he  went  on  speaking  to  himself, 
4  once  I  thought  I  might  live  and  be  happy  in  a  home  like 
this,  but  it  is  impossible.  She  craves  for  life  and  move- 
ment. Well,  she  shall  have  it.  I'll  store  my  writing- 
table  and  my  books,  and  after  to-morrow  our  belongings 
will  be  carried  in  a  couple  of  trunks.  I  was  a  wanderer 
long  ago,  and  it  seems  my  lot  to  go  forth  wandering  again.' 

Then  he  was  silent  for  a  long  while,  staring  aimlessly  at 
the  carpet. 

c  It  shall  never  be  said  that  I  did  not  try  every  expedient,' 
he  exclaimed,  rising  suddenly.  c  I'll  take  her  from  her  old 
associations  and  surroundings,  and  see  whether  or  not  I  can 
create  within  her  some  interest  in  life  beyond  that  of  drink. 


A   'PAR'    IX   THE    PAPERS  233 

It's  hard,  very  hard,  after  all  this  expense,  that  I  should  be 
compelled  to  cast  aside  my  work,  travel  and  do  odd  bits  of 
writing;  at  intervals.  I  had  looked  forward  to  a  life  of 
peace,  a  life  in  which  I  could  reflect  and  produce  a  great 
book,  but  alas  !  all  is  in  vain.  In  all  these  years  I've  only 
sown  the  wind.' 

And  rising  slowlv  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  study 
where,  for  the  next  hour,  he  sat  writing  letters  to  his  agent, 
and  to  other  persons  with  whom  he  had  business  relations, 
announcing  the  fact  that  he  was  going  abroad  immediately, 
and  would  acquaint  them  with  his  new  address  in  due 
course. 

c  I  suppose  I  shall  get  a  mere  nothing  for  all  these  house- 
hold gods,'  he  said  aloud,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  c  yet,  in  the 
circumstances,  I  suppose  I'm  better  without  them.  In 
future  I  shall  only  work  to  live,  without  thought  of  happi- 
ness or  contentment,  for  that  is  debarred  me  for  ever.' 

In  that  instant  he  had  recollected  Fosca,  and  the  strange 
secret  by  which  her  lips  were  sealed.  That  recollection 
brought  with  it  a  tide  of  wild  emotions  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  stem. 

At  last  he  finished  his  letters,  and  passed  out  into  the  gar- 
den, where  he  sat  beneath  the  great  shady  walnut  tree.  It 
was  his  last  day  in  the  home  wherein  he  worked  so  well. 
On  the  morrow  he  would  leave  it  and  become  a  wanderer. 
He  regretted  deeplv,  but  he  saw  it  was  the  only  course 
to  pursue.  He  had  made  a  mistake  in  endeavouring  to 
bring  Lena  into  quietude,  and  it  was  best  to  rectify  it 
forthwith. 

Therefore,  true  to  his  resolve,  the  morning  Continental 
mail  which  left  Charing  Cross  three  days  later  bore  away 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rosmead  to  an  undecided  destination,  while 
all  the  papers  a  few  davs  afterwards  duly  chronicled  the 
fact  that  the  popular  writer  had   left  to   spend  the   autumn 


234  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

and    winter    in   the  south,   his    health    being    impaired    by 

overwork. 

The  public  believed  the  latter  story,  while  their  popular 
romancer,  of  whose  health  the  papers  spoke  with  such 
concern,  nursed  the  poignant  sorrow  locked  within  his  own 
heart. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE    PHARISEE 

Bertram  stood  at  his  window  on  the  Promenade  des 
Anglais,  at  Nice,  and  gazed  reflectively  across  the  wide 
expanse  of  blue,  sunlit  sea.  It  was  late  in  January,  the 
period  when  Nice  is  literally  a  town  of  violets  and  mimosa, 
putting  on  its  best  appearance,  in  preparation  for  the  arrival 
of  King  Carnival.  The  season  was  at  its  height ;  the  mad 
gaiety  of  the  Riviera  would  soon  culminate  in  the  battles  of 
confetti,  and  of  flowers,  in  the  races,  yachting,  and  masked 
balls  at  the  Opera,  and,  in  a  few  short  weeks,  everyone 
would  fly  from  the  c  Azure  Coast  '  northward,  to  escape  the 
intolerable  heat. 

Of  all  resorts  on  the  Riviera,  Nice  has  the  most  varied 
attractions.  Mentone  is  essentially  the  quiet  retreat  of  in- 
valids ;  Monte  Carlo  is  too  reckless  to  suit  the  majority  who 
go  south  for  the  whole  season  ;  Beaulieu  is  too  small  and 
select  ;  and  Cannes  is  too  full  of  perennial  cliques.  But 
Nice  is  a  merry,  cosmopolitan  place,  where  the  ladies  can 
show  off  their  Paris-made  gowns  to  advantage,  along  the 
Promenade  des  Anglais,  the  sunniest  place  in  Europe,  with 
beautiful  environs,  and  roads  which  are  a  perfect  paradise 
to  the  cyclist.  The  young  can  ride,  cycle,  promenade,  flirt, 
and  otherwise  enjoy  themselves,  while  the  aged  can  lounge 
upon  the  seats,  in  the  warm  sunshine,  content  in  the  know- 
ledge that,  if  there  is  warmth  anywhere  in  Europe,  they 
obtain  it,  and  that,  while  rain  and   fogs  make  London  un- 


236  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

bearable,  they  have  a  blue,  cloudless  sky,  bright,  balmy  air, 
and  flowers   everywhere. 

Since  leaving  England,  they  had  been  to  Biarritz,  to  Pau, 
to  Bagneres  de  Luchon,  that  lovely  little  town,  nestling 
among  the  giant,  snow-capped  Pyrenees,  and,  travelling 
along  to  Marseilles,  had  arrived  in  Nice  early  in  December, 
taking  up  their  quarters  in  a  pension,  at  the  further  end  of 
the  Promenade  des  Anglais  —  the  one  with  the  great  garden 
in  front,  which  is  so  much  frequented  by  the  English. 
From  the  windows  of  both  their  rooms  they  had  beautiful 
views  of  the  Mediterranean,  and,  at  first,  Lena  was  charmed 
with  the  place,  delighted  with  its  brightness  and  warmth,  in 
contrast  with  an  English  winter,  interested  in  the  fine  shops, 
in  the  Casino,  in  the  concerts  on  the  Jetee  Promenade,  and 
in  her  neighbours  at  table  d'hote. 

Each  morning  they  went  out  together,  walking  in  the 
sunshine,  along  the  sea-front,  to  the  Place  Massena,  and 
taking  the  tram  back,  along  the  narrow  Rue  de  France,  in 
time  for  luncheon.  In  the  afternoon,  wThile  she  dozed,  her 
husband  wrote,  and  in  the  evening,  after  dinner,  they 
would  go  forth  to  one  or  other  of  the  cafes  to  take  their 
coffee. 

To  Lena,  this  life  was  a  pleasant  change,  after  that  in 
England,  and  Bertram  began  to  congratulate  himself  that 
he  had  acted  wisely  in  taking  her  awav.  She  still  drank 
whiskey,  but  not  to  quite  such  an  extent,  for  she  was  now 
compelled  to  pav  seven  francs  a  bottle  for  it,  while  gin  was 
unobtainable,  or,  at  least,  she  could  not  discover  where  to 
buy  it.  For  almost  the  first  time  since  their  marriage,  she 
acknowledged  herself  contented,  and  so  happy  Bertram 
became,  that,  on  those  quiet  afternoons,  among  those  bright, 
invigorating  surroundings,  he  wrote  with  greater  ease,  and 
more  force,  than  he  had  done,  even  at  Malstead.  Indeed, 
a  serial  story  which   he   had  just   finished,  and   delivered  to 


THE    PHARISEE  237 

the  syndicate  who  had  contracted  for  his  work,  was  declared 
by  them  to  be  the  best  romance  he  had  hitherto  produced, 
and  he  felt  confident  that,  at  last,  peace  had  come  to  him. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  cloudless,  the  sea  a  deep 
blue,  the  sun  warm,  and,  as  he  stood  looking  out,  there 
came  up  from  below  the  voices  of  a  couple  of  Italian  man- 
dolinists,  of  that  tribe  of  itinerant  musicians  who  visit  all 
the  hotels  and  pensions  regularly,  each  morning,  and  sere- 
nade the  visitors,  who,  in  return,  throw  ten-centime  pieces 
from  their  windows.  To  the  accompaniment  of  their  in- 
struments, they  were  singing  that  charming  old  Tuscan 
song  — 

Su  mare  luccica 
L'  astro  cT  argento, 
Placida  e  P  onda, 
Prospero  il  vento  ; 

Venite  alT  agile 
Barchetta  mia  ; 
Santa  Lucia, 
Santa  Lucia  !   .    .    . 

Lena,  standing  beside  him  in  her  dressing-gown,  for  she 
had  just  come  from  her  room,  exclaimed  — 

c  How  beautiful  Italian  is,  and  what  a  sweet  tune  !  I 
must  give  them  a  pennv,'  and  she  tossed  one  out,  receiving 
a  courteous  bow  and  a  smile  in  return. 

Then,  with  the  long  windows  still  open,  although  it  was 
January,  thev  sat  down  to  their  coffee. 

'What  a  lovely  day  !  '  she  observed.  c  The  sun  is  really 
hot,'  and  she  drew  her  chair  away  into  the  shadow.  '  This 
is  just  the  dav  for  Monte  Carlo.  You  promised  you'd 
take  me  over  again  soon.      Let's  go  to-dav.' 

c  Certainly,'  he  answered,  '  if  vou  wish.  We'll  get 
lunch  over  quicklv,  and  catch  the  one  o'clock  train.' 

They  had  been  to   the   gaming-rooms   several  times,  for 


2$S  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

he  had  in  view  a  series  of  stories  dealing  with  Monte  Carlo 
and  its  fascinations,  and  was  obtaining  the  local  colour, 
and  knowledge  of  roulette  and  trente-et-quarante  necessary 
for  writing  them.  Once  or  twice  he  had  played  roulette, 
with  the  minimum  stakes,  with  varying  success,  but  never 
risking  more  than  fifty  or  sixty  francs  at  a  time.  Lena, 
however,  was  very  unlucky.  Whenever  she  placed  a  five- 
franc  piece  on  the  red,  the  ball  was  certain  to  drop  into 
one  of  the  little  black  spaces,  and  if  she  played  on  the 
1  impair,'  the  '  pair  '  was  certain  to  turn  up. 

4  You  won't  plav,  of  course,'  her  husband  added.  c  Up 
to  the  present,  you've  lost  quite  a  hundred  francs.' 

'  I'll  just  try  another  twenty,  and,  if  I  lose,  I'll  never 
play  again,'  she  declared.  c  I  can't  be  in  those  rooms, 
where  everybody  seems  to  be  winning  money,  without 
having  a  try   myself.' 

'  One  hundred  francs  are  sufficient  for  us  to  lose,'  he 
observed. 

'  But  you've  won  two  or  three  hundred,  so  we've  lost 
nothing,  after  all,'  she  argued,  pouting,  as  she  stirred  her 
coffee. 

'  Very  well,'  he  said,  good-humouredly.  '  I'll  give  you 
twenty  francs,  on  the  understanding  that,  if  you  lose,  you 
won't  play  again.' 

'  All  right,'  she  answered,  and  they  finished  their  coffee 
and  rolls,  after  which  she  dressed  her  hair,  while  he  re- 
mained  in   their  little   sitting-room,  writing. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  they  ascended  the  carpeted 
steps  of  the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo,  and,  after  obtaining 
their  carte  d*  admission  from  the  pair  of  austere-looking 
gentlemen  in  the  bureau  of  the  Administration,  they  de- 
posited their  coats,  and,  walking  across  the  atrium,  entered 
the  great  gaming-rooms.  As  the  door  opened  to  admit 
them,   the   hot,   fevered   atmosphere — that   peculiar,   foetid 


THE    PHARISEE  239 

odour  of  combined  perspiration  and  perfume,  which  ever 
pervades  those  rooms  —  greeted  their  nostrils.  Already 
the  place  was  crowded.  All  the  r:ulette  tables  were  in 
full  swing,  and  around  them  were,  sitting  and  standing, 
excited  crowds,  awaiting,  in  breathless  anxietv,  the  click 
of  the  ivory  ball  as  it  dropped  into  one  of  the  little  spaces 
on  the  great  wheel  of  red  and  black,  bringing  them  fortune 
or  loss. 

Although  the  sun  wTas  bright  and  beautiful  outside,  the 
windows  were  all  carefully  curtained,  rendering  the  heavy 
gilt  of  the  place  a  trifle  dingy,  while  ventilation  seemed  to 
be  entirely  overlooked  bv  the  otherwise  diligent  attendants. 
The  loud  jingle  of  coin,  the  rustle  of  bank-notes,  the  mo- 
notonous cry  of  the  croupiers,  and  the  subdued  murmur  of 
many  voices,  filled  the  rooms,  as  together  thev  strolled 
across  the  polished  floor  to  one  of  the  side  tables,  and  stood 
for  some  minutes  watching  the  game. 

A  narrow-faced,  clean-shaven  man  had  been  playing 
with  the  maximum  upon  the  simple  chance  of  the  black, 
and  had  been  winning  heavily.  This  had  attracted  a  crowd 
of  those  idlers,  mostly  of  the  tweed-dressed,  English  tourist 
class,  who  go  to  Monte  Carlo  once  and  throw  away  a  few 
five-franc  pieces  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  and  in  order  to 
say,  on  their  return  to  their  suburban  or  provincial  homes, 
that  they  have  c  been  plaving  at  Monte  Carlo.'  Three 
times  in  succession  this  man  placed  the  maximum  on  the 
black,  together  with  a  thousand  francs  on  the  first  dozen 
numbers,  and  each  time  he  won  on  both  chances,  an  illus- 
tration of  a  marvellous  run  of  luck. 

Suddenly,  a  man  who  had  lost  his  last  piece  rose  from 
his  chair  next  the  croupier,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and,  in 
an  instant,  Bertram  took  the  seat. 

Then,  turning  at  once  to  his  wife,  he  asked  her  whether 
she  would  sit  there. 


240  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

1  No,'  she  answered.  c  I  don't  think  I  will  play,  for  I've 
no  luck.     I'll  stand  behind  here.' 

'Very  well,'  he  said,  and  taking  from  his  pocket  a  hun- 
dred-franc note,  he  handed  it  to  the  croupier,  and  received 
twenty  five-franc  pieces  in  exchange.  Four  of  them  he 
handed  to  Lena,  and  with  the  rest  commenced  to 
play. 

c  Messieurs,  faites  vos  jeux !  '  cried  the  croupier,  in  a 
nerveless  tone,  and  Bertram  placed  his  first  silver  piece 
upon  the  little  space  before  him,  marked  c  12  P,'  or,  in 
other  words,  staked  upon  the  first  dozen  of  the  thirty-six 
numbers   upon   the  wheel. 

Silver,  gold,  and  notes  were  flung  into  the  squares,  upon 
the  red,  the  black,  the  c pair,'  the  '-passe,'  the  c  impair,'  and 
the  c  manque,'  the  ball  was  sent  on  its  way  around  the  re- 
volving disc,  while,  an  instant  later,  the  same  monotonous 
voice   cried  — 

1  Rien  ne  va  plus  !  ' 

There  was  a  few  seconds'  silence,  then  the  ivory  ball 
gave  a  jump,  and  fell  with  a  loud  click. 

1  Dix-sept  !  Noir  !  Impair  et  manque  !  '  cried  the  wearied 
voice,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  the  rakes  drew  away  the 
money  that  was  lost,  Bertram's  stake  included.  He  had 
bet  upon  the  first  dozen,  but  the  number  seventeen  was  in 
the   second   dozen. 

Experience  had  taught  him  to  play  carefully,  therefore  he 
did  not  double  his  stake,  but  merely  placed  another  piece 
upon  the  second  dozen,  and  a  second  piece  upon  the  first 
column. 

4  Trots  !  Rouge  !  Impair  et  manque  !  '  cried  the  croupier, 
as  the  ball   fell. 

He  had  lost  on  the  dozen,  but  won  upon  the  column 
double  his  stake,  therefore  he  had  won  back  all  he  had  lost. 

Again  he   played,  this  time  ten  francs  on  the  last  dozen, 


THE    PHARISEE  241 

and    a    gold    piece  was  flung    to    him  when    the  number 
twenty-seven   turned  up. 

From  that  moment  he  began  to  win,  not  heavily,  for  he 
never  staked  more  than  a  twenty-franc  piece  at  a  time,  yet, 
by  degrees,  his  little  pile  of  gold  increased,  and  Lena,  stand- 
ing near  him,  was  amazed  at  the  marvellous  luck  which  had 
so  suddenlv  come  to  him.  He  plaved  always  on  the  dozens, 
and  it  seemed  as  though  he  could  not  lose.  Now  and  then 
a  twenty-franc  piece  would  be  swept  away  to  swell  the 
bank,  but,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  he  received  back  double 
his  stake.  Five  times  in  rapid  succession  he  left  two 
twenty-franc  pieces  upon  the  middle  dozen,  and  five  times 
the  middle  dozen  won,  thus  winning  four  hundred  francs  in 
a  few  minutes. 

He  looked  up  and  saw,  around  the  table,  a  crowd  of 
pale,  excited  faces,  but  he  himself  was  too  excited  to  notice 
anything  but  the  progress  of  the  ball  along  the  inside  of 
the  bowl-shaped  roulette  table.  His  cheeks  were  slightly 
flushed,  and,  in  the  greed  for  gain  that  had  taken  possession 
of  his  senses,  he  forgot  his  wife  —  forgot  everything,  except 
the  fact  that  he  was  now  winning,  gaining  money  more 
easily  than  he  had  ever  gained  it  in  his  whole  life 
before. 

During  a  lull  in  the  play,  he  counted  his  gold  into  little 
piles  of  ten  pieces,  and  found  that  he  had  nearly  four  thou- 
sand  francs. 

A  pretty,  elegantly-dressed  woman,  —  one  of  the  Paris 
demi-monde,  judging  from  her  dress  and  jewels,  —  sitting 
opposite  him,  raised  her  head,  and  laughed  across  to  him. 
She,  too,  had  won  heavily,  while  all  the  other  persons  at 
the   table   had   been   continuously   losing. 

c  Messieurs,  faites  vos  jeux  !  '  the  croupier  cried  at  last, 
and,  with  knit  brows,  Bertram  placed  a  louis  on  the  first 
dozen. 

16 


242  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

The  cocGtte  placed  a  louis  beside  his,  believing  that  to  fol- 
low his  play  would  bring  her  further  fortune. 

The  wheel  was  spun,  the  ball  fell  upon  the  number 
twenty-nine.      Both  had  lost. 

The  cocotte  laughed  at  him.  She  was  young,  fair-haired, 
not  more  than  twenty-three,  in  a  blouse  of  pale  blue  silk 
and  lace,  a  striking  black  hat,  and  long  white  gloves,  with 
magnificent  bracelets  upon  her  wrists.  But,  in  an  instant, 
with  all  a  gambler's  superstition,  he  believed  that  the  smiles 
of  Aspasia  brought  evil  fortune. 

Again  he  played,  this  time  on  the  middle  dozen,  and  fol- 
lowed by  the  gay,  laughing  woman  opposite  him. 

They  lost.  The  woman  laughed  again,  as  if  gleeful  that 
his  luck  should  have  deserted  him. 

He  tried  the  last  dozen,  doubling  his  stake  in  an  effort 
to  recoup  himself.  The  laughing  girl  in  blue  did  the 
same. 

'  Onze  !  Noir  f  Impair  et  manque  !  '  cried  the  croupier, 
and  in  a  second  the  rake  came  out,  and  swept  the  four 
pieces  of  gold  away. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  in  a  strange,  Sphinx-like  smile. 
Each  time  she  played  with  him  she  had  only  brought  him 
evil   fortune. 

c  Zero !  '  he  cried,  flinging  a  gold  piece  to  the  further 
end  of  the  table. 

The  cocotte  did  not  fancy  such  a  remote  chance,  and 
placed  her  louis  on  the  first   dozen. 

Once  more  the  ball  dropped  into  one  of  the  little  com- 
partments of  the  wheel. 

c  Cinq  !  Rouge  !  Impair  et  manque  !  '  cried  the  wearied 
voice. 

The  woman  had  won,  while  he  had  lost.  All  luck 
seemed  to  have  deserted  him.      He  glanced  furtively  at  her. 

Her   eyes  were  fixed   upon   him,  and   she   laughed   again. 


THE    PHARISEE  243 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  inwardly  cursed 
her. 

c  Messieurs,  faites  vos  jeux  !  '  cried  a  sharp  voice,  in  un- 
familiar tones,  and  Bertram  saw  that  the  croupiers  had 
changed.  The  man  who  now  held  the  ball  in  his  hand  was 
elderly  and  dissipated-looking,  with  a  stoop,  plainlv  acquired 
by  his  avocation  of  croupier  through  many  vears.  Rosmead 
disliked  his  look.  His  face  was  hard  and  cold,  and  he  had 
an  instinctive  feeling  that  all  good  fortune  had  gone  from 
him. 

The  woman,  although  her  face  was  young  and  handsome, 
irritated  him.  She  seemed  to  be  directing  the  ridicule  of 
others  upon  him.  In  desperation  he  put  down  four  louis 
on  the   middle   dozen. 

Ere  his  hand  left  the  cloth,  her  white-gloved  fingers  had 
staked  a  single  louis  beside  his.  Before  the  ball  fell  he 
knew  he  had  lost,  and,  sure  enough,  the  croupier  a  moment 
later  cried  — 

'  Trente-cinq  !      Noir  !      Impair  et  passe  !  ' 

Again  the  woman  laughed  lightly  at  him,  as  though  jeer- 
ing at  his  ill-fortune. 

There  was  once  more  a  lull  in  the  game.  A  blustering 
man  had  handed  in  a  number  of  notes  to  change  for  gold, 
and  was  distributing  a  thousand  francs  over  the  various 
numbers. 

c  Hulloa,  Lena,  mv  dear  girl  !  '  exclaimed  a  man's  coarse 
voice,  distinctlv,  behind  him.  c  Who'd  have  thought  of 
finding  you  here — at  Monte  Carlo,  too!  I  hope  your 
husband   isn't   about.' 

1  Hush  !  '  cried  Lena's  voice.  «•  Hush  !  Go  away  !  For 
God's   sake,  go  away  ! ' 

The  words  brought  Bertram  instantly  back  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  things  about  him.  He  turned  quickly  in  his 
chair,  and  saw  standing  beside  Lena  a  man  whom  he   had 


244  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

never  before  met,  a  stout,  jaunty,  florid-faced  stranger,  in  a 
suit  of  light  grey,  with  a  grey  felt  hat  in  his  hand. 

His  lips  compressed,  and  his  brow  darkened. 

He  pushed  the  gold  before  him  towards  the  croupier,  and 
asked  for  notes.  The  latter  came  along,  folded  in  half,  and 
balanced  at  the  end  of  the  long  black  rake.  He  counted 
them  swiftly.     There  were   fourteen  hundred   francs. 

The  stranger  had  apparently  not  understood  that  Lena's 
husband  was  present,  and  therefore  had  not  moved 
away. 

He  rose,  and  as  he  did  so  his  eyes  met  those  of  the 
cocotte. 

The  woman  laughed  again. 

With  a  smothered  imprecation,  he  turned  from  her,  and 
walked  to  his  wife's  side.  The  curious,  familiar  manner  in 
which  this  man  had  addressed  her,  had  aroused  his  suspi- 
cions, and  he  stood  by  in  silence,  glancing  at  the  stranger 
with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

Not  until  that  instant  did  Lena  realise  that  her  husband 
had  joined  them,  and  her  cheeks  went  a  deep  red  as  she 
glanced  from  one  man  to  the  other. 

c  Do  you  know  this  gentleman  ? '  inquired  Bertram 
quickly,  as  the  man  was  turning  away. 

c  Certainly,'  she  answered,  striving  to  still  her  wildly- 
beating  heart.  l  Let  me  introduce  you.  Sir  Douglas 
Vizard — my  husband.' 

Bertram  bowed  coldly,  without  a  word,  while  the  elder 
man,  with  that  merry  laugh  he  could  assume  at  will, 
expressed  his  delight  at  meeting  him. 

1  I've  known  your  wife  for  a  long,  long  time,'  he  ex- 
plained. l  We  are  quite  old  friends,  but  we  haven't  met 
for  a  year  or  two  now.  When  she  was  at  the  Adelphi, 
long  ago,  I  often  used  to  see  her.  I'm  president  of  the 
Mission  to  Theatrical  Workers,  don't  you  know  ? '      Then, 


THE    PHARISEE  245 

turning  to  Lena,  he  inquired  in  a  sympathetic  tone,  l  x\nd 
how's  your  poor  sister  ?      Better,  I  hope  ? ' 

1  The  last  letter  from  home  says  that  the  fogs  have  made 
her  ill  again,'  young  Mrs.  Rosmead  answered.  c  Have 
you  been  on  the  Riviera  long  ? ' 

4  Since  a  month  ago.  I  come  here  every  year,'  he  replied 
laughing.  c  There's  no  place  half  so  good  in  winter  in  the 
whole  of  Europe.' 

With  this  opinion  Bertram  agreed.  When  his  wife  had 
introduced  this  man,  he  had  been  taken  by  surprise,  for  he 
knew  Sir  Douglas  Vizard,  by  repute,  as  a  prominent 
Baptist,  a  constant  speaker  at  revival  meetings,  and  a  most 
energetic  worker  in  all  Dissenting  religious  movements. 
A  man  of  his  character  would  certainly  not  approve  of  the 
plav  carried  on  in  those  gilded  salons.  Yet,  as  he  glanced 
at  him,  his  quick  eyes  detected,  sticking  out  of  his  vest 
pocket,  one  of  those  little  cards,  ruled  in  columns  and 
marked  c  R '  and  l  N,'  whereon  gamblers  register  the 
winning   numbers,  to  guide  them   in   their  play. 

This  puzzled  him,  as  did  also  the  familiar  manner  in 
which  he  had  addressed  his  wife.  She  had  never  spoken 
of  him  as  a  friend,  therefore  his  suspicion  became  deep- 
rooted,  and  he  grew  resentful  that  this  man  should  have 
thus  addressed  her.  Her  theatre  life  was  of  the  past,  and 
he  did  not  desire  the  fact  that  she  had  been  a  supernumerary 
at  a  theatre  to  be  raked  up  again,  especially  by  this  loudly- 
dressed,  blustering  old  man. 

1  Have  you  been  winning  ?  '  Sir  Douglas  asked  him,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  in  his  grey  eves. 

1  No,'  snapped  Rosmead,  l  losing,  and  I  wish  you 
good-dav.' 

Then,  taking  his  wife's  arm,  he  walked  off,  and  straight 
out  of  the  rooms. 

4  Who  is  that  man,  Lena  ? '  he  demanded  fiercely,  when 


246  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

they  gained  the  atrium,  wherein  men  who  had  lost  were 
pacing  feverishly  up  and  down,  smoking  cigarettes,  before 
returning  to  endeavour  to  retrieve  their  losses. 

'  Sir  Douglas  Vizard,  the  president  of  our  Mission,'  she 
answered  promptly.  The  baronet  had  ingeniously  given 
her  a  cue  which  she  now  followed.  'When  I  was  at  the 
Adelphi,  he  used  to  come  a  lot  to  the  theatre,  and  get  the 
girls  to  go  to  tea-fights,  in  a  hall  somewhere  off  Drury 
Lane.  I  never  went.  As  you  know,  prayer  and  tea  don't 
mix  well  with  me,'  and  she  laughed  at  her  own  sorry 
attempt  at   wit. 

'  Then  you  know  him  quite  intimately,  I   suppose  ?  '  he 

said. 

1 1  only  know  him  by  meeting  him  at  the  theatre.  He 
was  good  friends  with  old  Sidney,  the  manager,  and  used 
to  be  behind  a  lot.  There  was  a  league  of  ladies  who  used 
to  hold  afternoons  for  the  girls,  and  try  and  convert  them 
by  giving  them  tea,  lemonade,  milk,  and  buns  ;  but  a  glass 
of  bitter  and  a  bit  of  fried  fish  would  have  been  much 
more  acceptable.  At  the  theatre,  he  used  to  be  called  Old 
Shuffle-slippers,  for  he  came  there  once  with  a  boot  split 
up,  because  he  had  the  gout.' 

c  But  I  heard  him  speak  to  you,'  he  cried  angrily.  c  He 
addressed  you  with  most  impertinent  familiarity.' 

1  I  didn't  notice  it,'  she  declared.     c  What  did  he  say  ?  ' 

'  He  called  you  "  dear  girl,"  and  expressed  a  hope  that  I 
was  not  present,'  Bertram  said. 

c  Well,  that  ain't  much,  is  it  ? '  she  protested.  (  Surely 
you  know  enough  of  theatres  to  know  that  girls  on  the 
stage  are  always  addressed  by  the  manager  and  others  as 
"  mv  dear."     That   means   nothing  in  the  dramatic  world.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  swift,  hard  glance  as  they 
descended  the  steps  from  the  Casino,  and  crossed  to  the 
Cafe  de  Paris,  where  the  band  was  playing. 


THE    PHARISEE  247 

c  I  believe  you  are  deceiving  me,  Lena,'  he  exclaimed  in 
a  strained  voice. 

8  I'm  not,'  she  declared,  looking  him  boldly  in  the  face  ; 
'  Fve  told  you  the  truth.  You  can  disbelieve  me  if  you 
like  ;   it  makes  no  difference  to  me.' 

1  You  are  not  lying  to  me  —  eh  ? '  he  inquired,  looking 
her  straight  in  the  face  with  those  dark,  penetrating  eyes 
that  could  read  character  at  a  glance. 

But  she  met  his  gaze  with  unwavering  eyes,  and,  smiling 
at  his  suspicions,  answered  : 

cNo,  Bertram,  I've  told  you  the  truth.  I  may  have 
one  failing  —  that  of  drink.  Surely,  however,  you  do  not 
suspect  me   of  infidelity  !  ' 

But  he  walked  on  without  replying,  and  in  silence  they 
took  their  seats  at  one  of  the  little  tables  outside  the  gay 
cafe,  where  the  strains  of  waltz  music  defeated  any  attempt 
at  conversation. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE    LILY    CITY 

Through  the  mad  reign  of  King  Carnival  Lena  and  her 
husband  remained  in  Nice.  They  watched  the  entry  of 
his  Tinsel  Majesty  into  the  town  on  that  February  night, 
his  progress  down  the  illuminated  Avenue  de  la  Gare  amid 
the  fanfare  of  trumpets,  the  thumping  of  drums,  the  light 
of  torches,  and  the  glare  of  green  and  red  fires,  and  were 
present  at  his  arrival  in  the  Place  Massena  amid  the  plau- 
dits of  the  thousands  assembled  on  the  specially-erected 
stands.  They  witnessed  the  giant  King  of  Folly's  enthrone- 
ment beneath  the  great  triumphal  arch  beyond  the  Casino, 
where  for  a  few  days  he  would  sit  to  preside  over  the 
various  festivities  before  being  finally  immolated  amid  the 
dancing  of  clown,  columbine,  and  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  revels. 

They  went  forth  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  the 
opening  of  Carnival,  and  watched  the  grand  procession  of 
cars  and  humorous  groups  which  paraded  the  town,  with 
many  brass  bands,  mostly  playing  different  tunes,  for  music 
at  Carnival  is  the  reverse  of  choice,  the  chief  object  of  the 
musicians  being  to  create  the  greatest  possible  noise  with 
their  brass  instruments,  regardless  of  either  time  or  tune. 
The  groups  on  horseback  and  the  groups  on  foot  were 
notable  for  their  variety  and  the  taste  displayed  in  costume, 
for  nowhere  in  the  world  is  so  much  money  spent  over 
Carnival   finery  as   in  this  centre  of  Riviera  gaiety.      The 


THE   LILY   CITY 


249 


colours  that  year  were  that  pale  shade  of  green  known  as 
vert  d'eau,  combined  with  mauve,  and  every  shop  displayed 
dominoes  of  those  artistic  tints,  from  the  rich  satin  ones  in 
the  Quai  St.  Jean-Baptiste  to  the  glazed  cambric  ones  huno- 
outside  the  shops  in  the  old  Italian  quarter,  and  assumed 
by  the  Nicois  themselves. 

Lena  was  delighted.  The  excitement  of  the  battle  of 
confetti,  when  she,  like  everyone  else  who  went  forth,  wore 
a  wire  mask  to  protect  her  face  from  the  hard  white  pellets, 
proved  such  that  she  bought  bagsful  of  confetti,  and  pelted 
people  in  return,  while  in  the  two  battles  of  flowers  — 
both  favoured  with  superb  weather  —  they  stood  with  the 
crowd  on  the  Promenade  des  Anglais,  and  bombarded  the 
people  in  carriages  with  those  little  bunches  of  violets, 
stocks,  and  carnations  sold  for  the  purpose.  It  was  a  fort- 
night of  wild  revelry,  in  which  Nice  ran  mad  with  harmless 
frolic,  and  remained  in  a  state  of  good-humoured  lawless- 
ness ;  but  very  soon  after  His  Majesty  had  been  consigned 
to  the  flames,  people  began  to  leave  for  the  north  again. 

The  dying  embers  of  the  Tinsel  King  are  emblematic  of 
the  season's  end. 

Bertram  wanted  to  remain  till  April,  and  finish  the  book 
he  was  writing,  but  Lena  soon  grew  tired  of  Nice,  and 
began  to  crave  for  London.  Daily  she  grumbled  at  all 
which  a  few  weeks  ago  gave  her  pleasure.  She  termed 
Nice  c  a  wretched  hole,'  and  declared  that  the  sea  at  Mar- 
gate was  better  than  along  the  Littoral,  that  there  was  no 
music-hall  in  Nice,  and  that  to  charge  two  francs  each  to 
enter  the  municipal  Casino  was  nothing  short  of  an  imposi- 
tion. One  paid  a  shilling  to  go  to  the  Crystal  Palace,  she 
said,  and  she  liked  that  far  better.  Possibly  the  latter  was 
because  she  had  one  evening  lost  twenty  francs  at  the  game 
of  billiards  played  at  the  Casino. 

Day  by  day  her  discontent   increased,  until   her   husband 


250  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  been  mistaken 
in  believing  that  she  was  happy  amid  these  new  surround- 
ings. As  he  sat  writing,  she  would  stand  at  the  window, 
look  out  upon  the  half-deserted  Promenade  across  the 
garden,  filled  with  oranges  and  palms,  and  abuse  the  place 
to  the  full  extent  of  her  not  altogether  choice  vocabulary. 

One  morning,  towards  the  end  of  March,  when  he 
found  her  with  whiskey  she  had  surreptitiously  ordered 
from  the  wine  merchant  in  the  Rue  de  la  Poste,  he  in 
desperation  suggested  that  they  should  go  and  stay  in  Paris 
through  the  spring. 

4 1  hate  Paris,'  she  answered.  c  No,  let's  go  back  to 
London  —  good   old   London   is  the   best   place   on  earth.' 

1  Why  do  you  hate  Paris  ?  '  he  asked  in  some  surprise. 
1  You  don't  know  it.' 

She  glanced  at  him  sharply. 

1  Oh  !  of  course  I  don't ;  but  from  what  you've  told 
me  about  the  life  there,  I  know  I  shouldn't  like  it,'  she 
answered  with  a  laugh.      1 1  want   to  go  back   to  London.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

1  Because  it's  cruel  of  you  to  keep  me  away  from  my 
mother  and  all  my  friends.  Look  at  mother's  last  letter. 
She's  very  queer,  and  says  she  has  a  presentiment  that 
she'll  never  see  me  again.  And  poor  Nell.  She's  very 
ill   too.      I   must  go.' 

1  No,'  he  answered  firmly.  '  You  will  not  return  to 
London.  If  you  don't  fancy  Paris  —  a  place  which  you've 
never  tried  —  we'll  go  to  Florence.  It's  beautiful  there  in 
spring.' 

1  That's  in  Italy.  I  hate  Italians,'  she  answered  quickly, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  as  if  to  watch  the  efFect  of  her 
words. 

4  It's  the  most  beautiful  place  in  April  and  May  in  all 
Europe,'   he   said.      l  Thousands   of   English   go   on    there 


THE   LILY   CITY  251 

from  Cannes  and  Nice.  We  will  go  —  in  a  couple  of 
days,  if  you  like.' 

'  No,'  she  cried  peevishly.  c  Let's  go  back  to  London. 
I've  had  enough   of  being  abroad  for  a  time.' 

'  No,'  he  repeated.  c  You  will  come  with  me  to 
Florence.' 

c  Oh !  of  course,'  she  burst  forth.  '  You  think  of 
nobody  but  yourself.  You,  who  haven't  any  relatives 
except  your  old  aunt,  who's  too  proud  to  look  at  me, 
don't  understand  how  it  is  I  want  to  get  back  and  see  my 
own  people.' 

fc  They  write  to  you  every  week,  and  the  money  I  allow 
them  has  never  once  fallen  into  arrear  since  our  marriage,' 
he  observed. 

cYes,  you  always  throw  that  in  my  face,'  she  cried  petu- 
lantly. c  If  you'd  have  let  me  stay  at  the  theatre,  you 
might  have  kept  your  miserable  few  shillings  a  week  in 
your  pocket.  I  could  have  earned  it,  and  given  it  to 
them.' 

c  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Lena,'  he  answered  quite  calmly. 
1  When  you  talk  like  that  you  only  regret  it  afterwards. 
We  will  go  to  Florence,  and  see  whether  we  cannot  have 
an  interesting  time  there.' 

c  I  don't  want  to  go,'  she  whined. 

1  I  have  decided,'  he  answered.  '  We  shall  leave  here 
in  two  days'  time.' 

So  a  week  later  they  had  installed  themselves  in  a  quiet 
and  eminently  respectable  pension  a  few  doors  from  the 
Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella  in  old  Firenze,  that  ancient 
Lily  City  which  possesses  an  eternal  charm,  that  city  of 
ponderous  monuments  of  the  past,  the  centre  of  all  the 
arts  and  of  all  the  beauty  of  fair  Italy. 

The  pension  was  small,  kept  by  a  round-faced,  merry 
Florentine   who   had   once  been  proprietor  of  the  '  Grey- 


252  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

hound,'  that  well-known  hostelry  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
who  after  five  years  had  returned  to  his  beloved  Florence 
comfortably  off,  and  now  kept  on  the  pension  for  the  benefit 
of  his  two  youthful  sons,  whom  he  intended  should  become 
hotel-keepers.  Only  a  dozen  persons  sat  down  daily  to 
table  d'hote,  and  these  included  two  regular  boarders,  a 
captain  of  infantry,  and  a  bank  manager.  The  others  were 
Americans,  Norwegians,  French,  and  Germans,  a  truly 
cosmopolitan  and  rather  pleasant  party.  But  from  the  first 
Lena  hated  it.  She  commenced  by  taking  a  violent  dislike 
to  all  her  fellow-guests,  and  refusing  to  enter  the  salon  for 
music  after  dinner.  She  held  herself  aloof  from  all,  moped 
in  her  room,  and  declared  that  Florence  was  hateful. 

With  difficulty  he  persuaded  her  to  accompany  him  one 
afternoon  to  the  Ufizzi  Gallery,  but  after  the  first  room  she 
declared  that  pictures  bored  her,  and  that  half  of  them 
were  Madonnas,  in  which  she  could  take  no  concern.  She 
therefore  sat  in  one  of  the  corridors,  and  with  a  bored  ex- 
pression waited  while  he  hurried  through  the  various  rooms 
with  a  superficial  glance  at  their  priceless  treasures. 

1 1  can't  understand  how  it  is  that  you  have  no  interest 
in  those  wonderful  pictures,'  he  said,  as  he  rejoined  her 
and  they  descended  the  stairs. 

1  I'm  tired  and  thirsty,'  she  answered.  c  Let's  go  across 
to  the  "  Gambrinus  "  and  get  a  drink.    They  sell  gin  there.' 

1  Gin  !  '  he  echoed  with  a  slight  sigh.  c  Always  gin, 
Lena  ? ' 

1  Well,  I  can't  stand  your  washy  vermouth  or  thin  Ger- 
man beer.      Surely  I  can  please  myself? ' 

'  It's  four  o'clock,'  he  said,  glancing  up  at  the  clock  on 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio.     c  Why  not  have  a  cup  of  tea  ? ' 

c  Oh,  tea  be  hanged  !  '  she  answered.  '  I  tried  it  yes- 
terday, and  it  was  like  dish-water.  These  Italians  can't 
make  tea.      You've  said  so  yourself.' 


THE   LILY   CITY  253 

So  his  visit  to  the  Ufizzi  was  a  failure.  He  had  prom- 
ised himself  a  treat  among  those  masterpieces  that  after- 
noon, for  as  an  ex-student  of  art  he  took  the  most  intense 
interest  in  those  old  masters  which  Teddy,  Jean,  and  himself 
discussed  so  frequently  long  ago  in  their  sky-parlour  beside 
the  Seine.  But,  as  usual,  Lena  marred  his  pleasure,  and 
prevented  him  inspecting  those  pictures  which  he  had 
longed  for  years  to  see.  Art  did  not  appeal  to  her.  She 
looked  upon  the  pictures  merely  as  so  many  faded,  grimy 
paintings,  and  wondered  what  beauty  people  could  find  in 
them.  Over  the  dinner-table  the  women  raved  about  the 
Madonnas  of  Raphael,  Filippo  Lippi,  Fra  Bartolommeo, 
Giovanni  Bellini,  Mantegna,  the  Venus  of  Titian,  the 
Adoration  of  the  Magi  by  Ghirlandajo,  Michael  Angelo's 
Holy  Family,  and  other  pictures  of  world-wide  fame. 
But  Lena  declared  that  these  women  discussed  them,  first, 
in  order  to  show  superior  knowledge,  and,  secondly,  because 
it  was  considered  good  form  to  do  so. 

She  was  ignorant  of  everything  pertaining  to  art.  One 
of  the  women,  a  pleasant,  middle-aged  American,  had  on 
one  occasion  asked  her  across  the  table  what  she  thought  of 
Michael  Angelo's  David,  whereupon,  in  order  to  show  herself 
equal  to  all  this  technical  gossip  on  art,  she  had  replied  — 

c  I  don't  think  so  very  much  of  it.  The  colouring 
seems  to  me  a  little  faulty  here  and  there.' 

The  American  woman  stared  at  her,  surprised  that  she 
should  allow  herself  to  betray  such  crass  ignorance,  and 
the  other  women  at  the  table  smiled  in  sarcasm.  Her 
husband,  in  conversation  with  a  man  at  his  other  hand, 
overheard  the  question  and  its  answer,  and  bit  his  lip  in 
mortification.  But  he  took  no  notice  of  it  until  after 
dinner,  when  they  were  in  their  own  room.  Then  he  ex- 
plained to  her  that  l  David  '  was  not  a  picture  at  all,  but  a 
statue,  the  sculptor's  masterpiece  ! 


254  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

He  tried  to  interest  her  by  taking  her  by  the  electric 
tram,  that  wonderful  piece  of  road-making,  up  to  the  heights 
of  Fiesole,  whence  can  be  obtained  that  superb  view  of 
Arno's  valley,  with  the  time-mellowed  red  roofs  of  Florence, 
with  Giotto's  magnificent  campanile  and  Brunelleschi's 
wondrous  dome  lying  far  below,  and  beyond  the  purple 
Apennines  and  the  rich  wine-lands  of  Chianti.  She  wan- 
dered through  the  little  place,  entered  the  cathedral,  where 
some  children  were  being  christened,  and  afterwards  visited 
the  Etruscan  amphitheatre,  but  she  declared  herself  tired, 
and  that  the  view  was  not  worth  the  excursion.  To  the 
Certosa,  the  crumbling  old  monastery  away  in  the  smiling 
Val  d'Ema,  they  made  an  excursion,  and  were  taken  around 
by  a  fat,  humorous  old  monk  ;  in  the  Cascine  they  drove 
at  the  fashionable  hour,  and  took  pleasant  jaunts  to  inspect 
the  old  church  of  San  Miniato,  and  to  explore  the  beauties 
of  Signa   and    the   wine-lands  beyond   Prato. 

By  every  means  in  his  power  he  sought  to  entertain  her, 
taking  her  out  walking  or  driving  each  day,  and  writing 
at  night  after  dinner,  although  wearied  by  the  excursions. 
Still,  she  was  not  satisfied.  Day  by  day  she  grumbled,  and 
declared  herself  sick  and  tired  of  Italy,  while  at  night, 
before  going  to  bed,  she  would  drink  herself  into  a  state  of 
semi-helplessness.  Gradually  the  bitter  truth  became  im- 
pressed upon  him  that,  by  selling  his  home  and  incurring 
all  the  heavy  expenses  he  had  done,  he  had  achieved  noth- 
ing. All  his  well-meant  efforts  had  been  in  vain.  He  had 
tried  to  reform  her;  he  had  struggled  valiantly  to  create 
within  her  some  object  in  life  beyond  her  fatal  penchant  for 
spirits  ;  he  had  denied  himself  everything,  all  the  peace  and 
comfort  which  he  had  hoped  to  obtain  in  his  country  home, 
yet  without  result.  Her  ill-temper,  her  constant  worry, 
and  her  intemperance  became  more  pronounced  than  ever. 
Each  night  she  drank  sufficient  whiskey  to  upset  the  strongest 


THE   LILY   CITY  255 

man  ;  each  night  she  swore  at  him  and  abused  him  until 
the  servants  gossiped  about  it,  and  quite  a  scandal  was 
created    in  the  pension. 

Bertram  was  not  slow  to  notice  that  the  other  women  now 
scarcely  ever  spoke  to  his  wife  at  table,  and  even  the  men 
regarded  him  with  pity.  She  had  disgraced  him  here,  as 
she  always  did  ;  therefore,  with  a  heaw  heart,  he  one  day 
allowed  her  to  have  her  way,  and  left  Florence.  Such, 
indeed,  was  her  mad  haste  to  get  back  to  London  that  she 
would  not  allow  him  to  break  the  journey,  and  they  actually 
travelled  right  through  bv  way  of  Milan,  Bale,  and  Calais, 
arriving  at  Charing  Cross  half  dead  with  fatigue.  But  she 
cared  nothing.  That  very  evening,  two  hours  after  their 
arrival,  she  compelled  him  to  accompany  her  to  a  bar  in 
the  Strand  for  a  glass  of  port.  She  was  delighted,  and 
laughed  with  eager  glee,  for  she  had  won,  and  was  back 
again  in  her  own  murkv  atmosphere  of  London. 

They  stayed  at  the  First  Avenue  Hotel,  and  that  night 
she  ordered  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  and  consumed  greater  part 
of  it  before  retiring  to  rest.  In  her  drunken  condition,  her 
pleasure  at  finding  herself  in  London  was  succeeded  by  a 
wild  outburst  of  fun*,  because  he  attempted  to  take  the 
bottle  from  her.  She  stamped  her  foot  in  rage,  cursed  him, 
and  fought  for  possession  of  it,  scratching  his  face  in  her 
mad  passion. 

He  allowed  her  to  have  her  way,  and,  leaving  the  room 
without  a  word,  dabbed  his  cheek  with  his  handkerchief 
and  descended  to  the  smoke-room  until  she  should  fall 
asleep.  All  his  efforts  had  been  without  avail,  he  sadly 
reflected,  as  he  smoked  his  cigarette  in  a  corner  of  the 
great  room  where  men  were  chatting  and  drinking. 

In  the  morning,  however,  he  said  nothing,  but  after 
breakfast  went  down  to  the  Strand  and  consulted  young 
Mr.  Howden  upon    his  business   affairs,  afterwards  calling 


256  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

for  an  hour's  pleasant  chat  with  his  publisher.  The  latter 
was  an  exceedingly  jovial,  middle-aged  man,  who  possessed 
the  true  spirit  of  the  Bohemian,  was  careful  in  business, 
and  a  personal  friend  and  confidant  of  most  of  the  popular 
novelists  whose  books  he  issued.  Rosmead  always  enjoyed 
these  chats  on  c  shop,'  for  the  head  of  the  well-known  firm 
was  one  of  his  best  friends.  Sometimes,  in  the  days  before 
he  left  London,  he  would  go  up  to  his  house  in  the  West 
End  to  dine  and  plav  billiards,  or  at  others  they  would 
lunch  together,  and  transact  their  business  in  a  manner 
most   amicable   and   friendly. 

Of  his  domestic  affairs  Rosmead  never  spoke.  He 
masked  his  heavy  heart  beneath  a  cloak  of  easv-going  good- 
humour.  Once  or  twice  Lena  had  accompanied  him  to 
dine  with  the  merrv  publisher  and  his  wife  ;  but  she  hated 
all  his  friends,  and  onlv  went  because  he  compelled  her. 
The  publisher  had  noticed  her  careless  indolence,  her  bored 
attitude,  and  her  penchant  for  spirits,  and  shrewdly  guessed 
that  his  friend  was  not  over  happy  in  his  home  life.  This 
he  regretted.  Of  all  his  authors  he  liked  Bertram  Rosmead 
best,  for  his  utter  lack  of  egotism,  his  irresponsible  humour, 
his  cosmopolitan  air,  and  his  easy-going  disposition. 

On  this  occasion  he  invited  him  to  lunch  at  the  Florence, 
that  well-known  Italian  restaurant  off  Wardour  Street ; 
but  Bertram,  fearing  that  his  wife  would  drink  again 
heavily,  was  compelled  to  decline  and  return  to  the  First 
Avenue. 

Lena  was  awaiting  him.  She  was  sitting  in  her  faded 
dressing-gown,  with  a  glass  of  whiskev  on  the  table  at  her 
elbow,  her  face  flushed,  her  eves  red  and  shifty,  her  lips 
full  and  swollen.  A  single  glance  was  sufficient  to  show 
him   that   she  was  drunk. 

1  You're  not  ready  to  go  and  lunch  at  the  Gaiety,  as  we 
arranged,'  he  observed. 


THE   LILY   CITY  257 

4  Oh,  yes,  I  am,'  she  answered,  rising.  c  In  ten  minutes 
I'll  be  dressed.  Where  have  you  been  ?  To  see  all  your 
pals,  I  suppose.  It's  those  men  you  call  your  friends  who 
are  my  enemies.  It  was  those  men  who  urged  you  to  take 
me  abroad.  And  a  lot  of  good  it's  done  me,  hasn't  it  ? ' 
she  laughed  cynically. 

He  did  not  replv,  but  casting  himself  into  her  chair, 
took  up  a  paper  and  read,  while  she  dressed,  with  marvel- 
lous quickness,  considering  her  state  of  semi-inebriety. 

Thev  took  the  omnibus  from  Holborn  to  the  Gaiety, 
lunched  there,  but  when  they  descended  into  the  Strand 
again   she   suddenly   stopped  short,  saying  : 

1 1  shall  go  down  and  see  the  Parkers  this  afternoon.' 
'  No,'  he  answered,  for  he  did  not  wish  her  to  go  to 
call  on  this  family  in  the  state  in  which  she  was.  They 
were  people  he  did  not  like,  for  Mrs.  Parker  was  a  con- 
firmed inebriate.  c  Let's  go  back  to  the  hotel.  You  are 
tired,  so  have  a  rest  while  I  go  out  and  finish  my 
business.' 

4  I  shan't,'  she  answered  angrily.  l  You  always  try  and 
keep  me  from  my  friends.      I  shall  go.' 

'  But  I  can't  go  with  you  to-day.  I  have  a  business 
appointment.      I'll   go  to-morrow.' 

1  Then  I'll  go  alone,'  she  answered  decisively. 

'  You  won't,'  he  cried  firmly.  '  Here's  a  cab.  Let's  go 
back  to  the  hotel.' 

8  I  shan't  go  back.  You  want  to  keep  me  in  that  place 
all  day  like  a  prisoner  —  you  miserable  hound  !  I  shall  go 
to  the  Parkers.' 

If  she  went  he  knew  that  she  would  be  helplessly  intoxi- 
cated that  night,  as  she  had  been  on  previous  occasions 
when  she  had  visited  that  undesirable  acquaintance. 

1  But  you  shan't  go,'  he  cried,  in  anger. 

4 1  shall.     And  you  can  go  to  the  devil  ! '  she  said,  in  a 

17 


258  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

tone  of  hatred,  and,  hailing  a  passing  omnibus,  she  entered 
it,  and  the  vehicle  moved  away,  leaving  him  standing  alone 
upon  the  pavement. 

His  face  was  white  with  anger  ;  he  bit  his  lip,  then  sadly 
turned  away,  with  heavy,  despondent  heart,  and  tears  in  his 
serious  eyes. 

He  walked  on  for  nearly  two  hours,  consumed  by  grief, 
and  utterly  heedless  of  where  he  went.  It  was  an  unusually 
bright  afternoon  for  London,  and  the  sun  shone  quite 
warmly,  as,  about  four  o'clock,  he  passed  along  Holborn, 
and  found  himself  again  before  his  hotel.  He  entered,  went 
to  the  smoke-room,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in  reflection. 
He  had  tried  every  expedient,  and  had  failed.  They  were 
homeless,  and  Lena  was  now  preventing  him  earning  the 
money  necessary  for  them  to  live.  All  his  efforts  had  been 
futile,  and  nothing  now  remained.  Calmly  he  reviewed  his 
position.  From  every  standpoint  he  saw  that,  if  he  re- 
mained with  her,  he  must  necessarily  abandon  all  thought 
of  a  brilliant  future.  To  leave  her  was  the  only  course. 
He  was  sick  at  heart,  and  world-weary.  Every  newspaper 
gave  him  laudatory  notices,  and  chronicled  his  movements 
as  regularly  as  though  he  were  a  royal  personage ;  applica- 
tions were  pouring  in  for  his  autograph,  and  for  his  support 
to  charitable  institutions,  and  magazine-editors  were  eager 
for  his  short  stories  and  his  serials,  although  Mr.  Howden 
had  now  trebled  his  prices.  Yet  he  was  a  lonely,  melan- 
cholv  man,  without  interest  in  the  world  around  him,  with- 
out  care  of  what  the  public  thought,  or  of  what  praise  the 
Press  bestowed  upon  his  work.  He  was  heedless  of  all  his 
triumphs,  for  at  best  they  were  but  empty  ones  ;  he  was 
careless  of  everything,  crushed,  broken-hearted. 

With  a  sigh  he  roused  himself  at  length,  crossed  to  one 
of  the  writing-tables,  and,  in  desperation,  wrote  Lena  a  sad 
and  bitter  letter,  telling  her  of  his  resolve. 


THE   LILY   CITY  259 

«  To  live  together  longer  is  impossible,"  he  wrote.  c  /  regret 
deeply  this  step,  which  I  feel,  for  my  own  sake,  compelled  to  take, 
but  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  have  striven,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
When  you  receive  this  I  shall  have  left  Londofi,  and  it  will  be 
useless  for  you  to  endeavour  to  find  me.  All  I  pray  is  that  you 
may  lead  a  better  life,  and  that  you  may  break  yourself  of  the 
terrible  habit.  You  have  driven  me  from  you,  but  I  do  not 
upbraid  you.      I  am  only  filled  with  heart-felt  regret? 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  her  of  the  monthly  allowance  he 
intended  to  make  her,  to  suggest  that  she  should  take  com- 
fortable rooms,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  he  enclosed  her 
a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  for  her  current  expenses. 
He  closed  the  letter,  sealed  it,  and  addressed  it  to  her. 
Then,  ascending  to  his  room,  he  packed  one  small  trunk 
with  his  own  clothes,  and,  taking  her  portrait,  which  was 
locked  in  one  of  her  trunks,  placed  it  in  his  own,  after 
gazing  upon  it  long  and  earnestly.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  paused. 

He  sio-hed,  and  the  hot  tears  welled  in  his  dark  eyes. 
His   lips  moved,  but   no   sound  came   from  them. 

With  sudden  resolve,  he  rang  the  bell,  paid  the  hotel  bill, 
and,  leaving  the  letter  for  Lena  upon  the  dressing-table, 
left  the  hotel. 

At  half-past  eight  that  night,  the  Continental  express  from 
Liverpool  Street  for  Antwerp,  via  Harwich,  bore  Bertram 
Rosmead,  the  popular  romance-writer,  the  sad  and  sorrow- 
ing man  whose  fame  was  world-wide,  away  into  self-im- 
posed exile,  and  when,  two  hours  later,  the  steamer  cast  off 
from  Parkeston  Quay,  he  stood  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
watching  the  great  electric  lights  slowly  fading  in  the  dis- 
tance as  the  ship  sped  forth  into  the  dark  and  dismal  sea. 
1  The  last  of  England,'  he  murmured.  l  Henceforth 
am   an  outcast,  because  I  have   abandoned  her,  because   I 


26o  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

have  taken  this  step  in  order  to  save  myself.  God  knows 
how  I  have  suffered,  and  He  alone  can  help  me.' 

And  he  stood  in  silence,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  far-off 
lights  which  shone  like  stars,  while  the  long  waves  rose 
with  a  swish  at  the  vessel's  side,  and  hissed  past  as  the 
steamer,  with  increasing  speed,  headed  her  way  towards 
the  fishing-grounds. 

He  gazed  about  him.  All  was  dark,  silent,  and  lonely, 
typical,  indeed,  of  his  own  sad  and  wearied  heart. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 
life's  flotsam 

Once  more  Bertram   Rosmead  became  a  wanderer.      His 
old    Bohemian    instinct  was   aroused   within   him.      Alone, 
friendless,  careless  of  himself,   heedless  of  everything,  he 
drifted   on   from  town  to  town,  writing   spasmodically,  but 
conscientiously   fulfilling    the    contracts    Mr.  Howden   had 
made  for  him  long  ago.      From  Brussels  he  went  to  Namur, 
and  up  the  winding  Meuse,  the  banks  of  which  were  fresh 
in  their  spring  green,  then,  when  tired  of  quaint  old  Dinant, 
with  its  high  rocks  and  church  with  bulgy  spire,  he  went  on 
to  Rochefort,  Han.,  and  subsequently  to  that  little  mediaeval 
out-of-the-world  Ardennes  village,  of  late  so  much  patron- 
ised by  the  English,  Laroche.     For  several  months  he  lived 
there,  striving  to  forget  by  working  hard.     The  unpretend- 
ing hotel  in  which  he   lived,  although  on  somewhat  prim- 
itive lines,  was  nevertheless  a  cheerful  place,  filled  as  it  was 
by  English  and  Belgians,  who  came  there  in  search  of  health 
and  pleasure.      At  last,  however,  he  grew  tired  of  it,  and 
journeyed  up  the   Rhine  to  Wiesbaden,  putting  up  at  the 
1  Rose,'  writing  in   the   morning,  and  taking   his   afternoon 
coffee 'in  the  Kursaal  garden,  smoking  and  listening  to  the 
magnificent  band. 

He  remained  until  the  season  waned,  then  went  up  to 
Davos,  and  subsequently  found  himself,  at  Christmas,  on 
the  Riviera  again,  in  a  'pension  on  the  Promenade  de  Gara- 
van  at  Mentone,  where  he  remained  until   March.     Thus 


262  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

nearly  a  year  went  by.  He  seldom  received  a  letter  from 
Lena,  yet  each  month  she  received  regularly  the  allow- 
ance he  made  her,  and  on  her  birthday  he  thoughtfully 
sent  her  a  present,  which,  however,  she  did  not  deign  to 
acknowledge. 

Although  he  lived  at  the  pleasantest  and  most  frequented 
health  resorts,  his  exile  grew  monotonous,  and  day  by  day 
he  longed  to  be  back  again  in  England,  to  live  in  the 
country,  and  enjoy  a  restful  quiet.  But  this  was  impossi- 
ble. If  he  returned  and  took  a  house  or  apartment  in 
England,  Lena  would,  he  knew,  come  back  to  him  and 
cast  a  shadow  over  his  life.  Therefore  he  remained 
abroad,  notwithstanding  the  earnest  solicitations  of  his 
friends  to  return. 

At  the  table  d'hote  one  day,  the  conversation  turned,  as  it 
so  often  does  in  hotels  and  pensions,  upon  the  most  desirable 
places  for  summer  residence,  when  one  old  gentleman  de- 
clared that  one  of  the  most  pleasant  of  Italian  towns  was 
Lucca.  The  novelist  turned  to  him  and  made  some  fur- 
ther inquiries.  He  intended  to  move  ere  long,  and  had  no 
idea  where  to  go,  but  his  fellow-guest's  description  of  that 
quiet  old-world  Tuscan  town  commended  it  to  him  as  a 
likely  place  where  he  could  obtain  fresh  scenery  for  a  new 
book. 

1  Go  and  try  it,'  the  old  gentleman  said.  c  If  you  don't 
like  it,  go  up  to  the  Bagni  di  Lucca,  fifteen  miles  away,  up 
in  the  Apennines,  a  charming  place,  and  almost  unknown 
to  the  English.  You  can  stay  there  all  the  summer  with- 
out feeling  the  heat  too  great.  I  was  there  all  last  summer, 
and  it  did  my  gout  a  lot  of  good.'  And  he  grunted  in  satis- 
faction, as  old  men  will. 

Rosmead,  during  the  succeeding  days,  thought  well  over 
those  words  of  his  fellow-guest,  and  at  length,  in  the  early 
days  of  April,  set  forth,  travelling  through   Genoa  to  Pisa, 


LIFE'S   FLOTSAM  263 

and  thence  up  to  Lucca,  that  quaint  old  town  of  Dante  and 
Gentucca,  which  looked  strangely  tranquil  in  the  evening 
lio-ht  as  he  drove  through  its  quiet  mediaeval  streets  to  the 
'  Universe'  Next  day,  when  he  strolled  through  the  nar- 
row, winding  streets,  with  their  great  old  prison-like  houses 
with  barred  windows,  visiting  the  ancient  cathedral  of  San 
Martino,  with  Guidetto's  beautiful  facade,  the  Baptistery  of 
San  Giovanni,  lounged  and  smoked  beneath  the  plane 
trees  in  the  sun-whitened  Piazza  Grande,  and  took  a  de- 
lightful walk  along  the  ramparts,  he  became  enamoured  of 
the  place.  It  was  certainly  a  quiet,  old-world  spot,  just  the 
place  he  had  long  sought,  a  place  with  shady  piazzas  and 
ancient  streets,  the  very  restfulness  of  which  seemed  con- 
ducive to  his  work. 

Therefore,  after  a  little  difficulty,  he  found  apartments, 
high  up  in  an  old  palace,  overlooking  the  broad,  leafy 
Piazza  del  Giglio,  where  the  light-hearted,  easy-going  peo- 
ple lounge  at  sunset,  listening  to  the  military  band,  and  the 
gorgeously-attired  beadle  stands  upon  the  steps  of  the  com- 
munal theatre  opposite,  a  wonderfully  pompous,  but  entirely 
useless  personage,  as  he  leans  upon  his  silver-headed  staff  of 
office. 

Very  quickly  the  novelist  settled  down  to  work  upon  a 
new  romance  of  Italian  life.  His  sitting-room,  a  once 
handsome  apartment  with  beautifully  painted  ceiling,  now 
sadly  faded  and  crumbling,  spoke  mutely  of  the  grandeur  of 
that  fine  old  palace  in  the  bygone  days  when  Lucca  was 
the  proud  capital  of  the  duchy.  Through  centuries  it  had 
been  the  residence  of  the  powerful  Dinucci  family,  but 
now,  alas  !  had  fallen  from  its  high  estate,  being  divided 
into  tenements,  while  the  last  remaining  descendant  of  the 
Princes  Dinucci  was  believed  to  be  a  waiter  in  a  London 
restaurant.  It  is  ever  thus  in  those  Tuscan  cities  of  the 
past,  and  sad  it  is  to  gaze  upon  the  massive,  but  mouldering 


264  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

homes  of  these  great  families,  whose  descendants  are  now 
seeking  their  fortunes  outside  Italy,  or  who  are  living  ob- 
scurely in  semi-poverty  in  Milan,  in  Florence,  in  Rome,  or 
other  great  cities.  Tuscany,  the  garden  of  Italy,  is  full  of 
broken  monuments  of  its  glorious  past  —  full  of  mediaeval 
associations,  and  rich  in  antiquities  which  mutely  tell  their 
own   sad   story. 

From  the  garish  hotels  and  pensions  of  the  German  Bads, 
the  Rhine,  and  the  Riviera,  this  quaint,  restful  old  place  was 
a  pleasant  change,  and  Bertram  found  that  he  could  write 
rapidly  and  well,  although  at  midday  the  hot,  glaring,  Italian 
sunshine  compelled  him  to  close  his  sun-shutters,  and  work 
in  semi-darkness.  But  when  the  shadows  lengthened  in  the 
quiet  hour  before  dinner,  and  the  infantry  band  assembled 
to  play  selections  from  the  favourite  operas,  then  he  would 
open  his  long  windows  and  sit  watching  the  merry-faced, 
sun-tanned  Lucchesi  as  they  strolled  beneath  the  chestnuts, 
enjoying  the  bel  fresco,  gossiping,  laughing,  and  flirting,  after 
the  blazing  heat  of  the  day.  It  was,  indeed,  a  pleasant 
town,  and  he  was  perfectly  content  there,  working  by  day 
and  idling  in  one  or  other  of  the  cafes  of  an  evening ;  now 
and  then  visiting  the  Giglio  Theatre,  where  he  could  obtain 
a  good  seat  and  hear  the  best  operas  for  the  not  altogether 
ruinous  sum  of  tenpence.  The  cost  of  a  box  on  the  best 
tier  was  only  six  lire,  or  under  five  shillings,  and  the  per- 
formances were  always  by  the  most  popular  companies  in 
Italy.  In  the  home  of  opera  the  guinea  stall  is  unknown. 
One  does  not  assume  a  claw-hammer  coat  in  the  poltrone, 
and  one  is  permitted  there  to  skin  and  eat  semi,  those  salted 
melon  pips  so  dear  to  the  Tuscan  palate.  The  Italians  find 
it  possible  to  enjoy  opera  without  a  starched  shirt,  and  they 
are  keener  critics  of  music  than  the  well-dressed  crowd  who 
witness  a  similar  performance  at  Drury  Lane  or  Covent 
Garden. 


LIFE'S   FLOTSAM  265 

One  breathless  August  day,  when  the  roads  lay  blanched 
beneath  the   burning  sun,  and   the  cicale,  that  harbinger  of 
heat,  chirped   musically   in  the  trees   in  the   Piazza,  he  set 
forth   by  the    little   steam   tram    for   an  excursion   into  the 
Apennines,  to   obtain   fresh   air.      He    carried    with   him    a 
good-sized    kit-bag,    which    contained    pens,   ink,   and   the 
manuscript   upon  which  he  was  at  work,  for  he  intended  to 
remain    up   at   the    Bagni   di  Lucca   for  a   fortnight  or  so. 
The  journey  there  was  delightful,  first  by  the  little  tramway 
for  about  five  miles  —  to  the  Ponte  a  Moriano,  a  few  strag- 
gling houses  opposite  the  high-up  village  of  Moriano  —  and 
thence  by  carriage  for  ten  miles  along  the  shallow,  rippling 
Serchio,  traversing  a  delightful  hill  country,  picturesque,  and 
rich  in  olives,  vines,  and   maize,  passing  the  strange  mediae- 
val Ponte  del   Diavolo  —  that  pointed  bridge  which  legend 
declares  was  built  by  the  Devil   seven  centuries  ago  —  and 
through  the   little  village  of  Fornoli,  to  the  three   villages, 
connecting,  which  form  the   once-famed   baths.      A   queer, 
sleepy  place  it   is,  situate  in  one  of  the  most  out-of-the-way 
corners  of  Europe,  far  away  from  the  rail,  and  in  the  centre 
of  a  wild  and    beautiful  country.      There   are  one  or  two 
good  hotels,  and  the  plane  trees  planted  in  the  quiet  streets 
form    shady   avenues.      On    every    side   the   mountains   are 
rushed  and  picturesque,  and  in  every  direction  are  beautiful 
walks  and  drives.      A  century  ago,  before  the  advent  of  rail- 
ways, this  now-forgotten  little  place  was  the  favourite  resort 
of  crowned  heads  and  the  aristocracy  of  Europe  \  but  it  has 
sadly   fallen    out    of   fashion    nowadays,    and    like    Monte 
Catini  and  Vallombrosa,  is  essentially  frequented  by  better- 
class  Italians,  who   come  up  from   Florence,  Bologna,  Pisa, 
or    Leghorn,   to   escape   the    intolerable   heat    of  July   and 
August    on    the    plains.      The    English   traveller    in    Italy 
never  o-oes   to   the    baths   of   Lucca,  because   they    are    no 
longer   in  fashion,  and  perhaps  because  they  are  so  inac- 


266  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

cessible.  Nevertheless,  a  sojourn  there  is  a  restful  holiday, 
amid  invigorating  mountain  air  and  scenery,  which  reminds 
one  of  Central  Norway,  quiet  and  peaceful,  the  rural  silence 
only  broken  by  the  murmuring  of  the  Lima  river  as  it 
rushes  along  its  narrow,  rocky  bed,  and  the  sighing  of  the 
wind  in  the  chestnuts.  In  a  room  in  the  Hotel  Victoria, 
overlooking  the  spacious  garden  and  the  valley,  Rosmead 
installed  himself,  placed  a  table  in  the  window,  and  con- 
tinued his  novel,  finding  the  fresh,  cool  air  refreshing  after 
the  blazing  heat  of  the  ancient  Tuscan  town  wherein  he 
had  settled.  At  the  table  d'hote  was  a  crowd  of  happy 
Italians,  he  being  the  only  Englishman  in  the  hotel.  In 
those  hours  when  ideas  did  not  flow  freely,  he  took  his 
stout  stick  and  went  forth  to  explore  the  neighbourhood, 
walking  great  distances  and  climbing  to  all  sorts  of  remote 
mountain  villages,  those  queer  little  places  perched  so  high 
up  and  in  such  inaccessible  spots  in  the  mountains  that  it 
seemed  almost  incredible  that  anyone  should  live  there. 
But  at  night,  after  dinner,  he  would  settle  down  with  his 
lamp  and  write  for  hours,  sometimes,  indeed,  until  a  streak 
of  grey  light  shone  over  the  mountain  top  and  crept  in 
through  the  crevices  of  the  blind  to  warn  him  that  another 
day  was  dawning. 

J  D 

Although  self-exiled,  he  saw  from  his  letters,  and  from 
the  Press  cuttings  sent  him  by  the  agency  to  which  he 
subscribed,  how  gradually  his  reputation  was  increasing. 
One  letter  forwarded  from  Lucca  was,  indeed,  perhaps  the 
most  gratifving  any  professional  man  could  receive.  It 
was  from  a  well-known  firm  of  London  photographers, 
and  read  as  follows  :  — 

c  We  should  esteem  it  a  favour  if  you  could  make  it 
convenient  to  give  us  a  sitting,  as  we  are  anxious  to 
include  your  portrait  in  our  Gallery  of  Celebrities.  If  you 
will   give   us   an   appointment   we   shall    be   very    happy   to 


LIFE'S   FLOTSAM  267 

keep  it ;  and  of  course  no  portrait  will  be  issued  before  the 
proof  is  approved  of  by  yourself.' 

He  placed  the  letter  upon  the  table  and  sighed.  He 
had  reached  the  height  of  his  ambition,  and  had  become  a 
4  celebrity,'  yet  he  was  prevented  from  enjoying  the  fame, 
to  achieve  which  he  had  toiled  until  he  had  become  pre- 
maturely old  and  world-weary  before  his  time.  His  was 
indeed  an  empty  harvest. 

That  same  day  at  sunset  he  walked  down  the  little 
village  to  the  tiny  Piazza  del  Ponte,  and  took  a  seat  out- 
side the  small  cafe  to  rest  and  think.  From  where  he  sat 
he  had  a  good  view  of  the  old  stone  bridge  and  the  white, 
dusty  high  road  winding  away  down  the  valley  back  to 
Lucca,  the  road  over  which  the  battered  old  diligence  with 
its  four  horses  and  jingling  bells  rumbled  once  every  day, 
and  where  all  the  health-seekers  drove  in  high-wheeled 
carriages  from  the  Ponte  a  Moriano.  Absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  he  smoked,  sipped  his  glass  of  menta,  and 
watched  the  people  passing  and  repassing,  the  brightly- 
dressed  contadlnell'i  bringing  fruit,  vegetables,  and  eggs  into 
the  little  place,  and  the  visitors  whose  toilettes  were  not 
remarkable  for  either  novelty  or  style,  for  no  lady  takes  her 
gayest  dresses  to  the  Baths.  It  is  essentially  a  place  where 
one  can  lounge  in  old  clothes,  and  can  forget  to  dress  for 
dinner  without  impropriety.  Thus  it  entirely  suited  Ber- 
tram's careless  tastes. 

Suddenly,  as  he  sat  with  his  elbows  resting  upon  the 
table,  his  '  Tribuna '  cast  aside,  and  his  cigarette  still  in  his 
mouth,  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  a  solitary  figure,  that  of  a 
woman  with  a  pearl-grey  sunshade  crossing  the  bridge 
towards  him.  In  an  instant  the  grace  of  carriage  seemed 
familiar,  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  open-mouthed,  he  stood 
gazing   intently  at  the   unconscious   foot-passenger. 

A  moment  later  he  had  convinced  himself. 


268  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

It  was  Fosca  ! 

He  rushed  across  to  her  with  a  cry  of  welcome,  his 
hand  outstretched,  while  she  on  her  part  drew  back  in  sur- 
prise, then  took  his  proffered  hand,  murmuring  some  inco- 
herent words,  so  overjoyed  was  she. 

4  How  strange  !  '  he  observed  as  they  walked  on  side  by 
side.  4  How  extraordinary  that  we  should  meet  here  when 
I  thought  you  far  away  in  America  ! ' 

4  We  returned  three  months  ago,'  she  answered  brightly, 
her  dark  eves  resting  on  his  with  a  look  of  supreme  happi- 
ness.    4  But  why  are  you  here  in  this  unknown  place  ? ' 

4  I've  left  London.' 

4  For  a  holiday  ? ' 

4  No,'  he  answered  in  a  low  tone.     4  For  ever.' 

She  was  silent ;  her  eyes,  with  the  love-light  in  them, 
turned  upon  him  as  they  crossed  the  tiny  Piazza  and  con- 
tinued up  the  avenue  towards  the  Bagni  Caldi. 

4  And  your  wife,  Bertram  ?  '  she  asked  in  a  tremulous, 
serious  tone.  4  I  know  that  you  are  married,  although  you 
did  not  tell  me  so.      What  of  her  ?  ' 

1  We  have  parted,'  he  answered,  in  a  voice  of  melan- 
choly, wondering  who  had  told  her  of  his  marriage. 

4  She  remains  in  London,  I  suppose.' 

He  nodded. 
•  4  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  left  her  ?  '   she  asked  with 
a  touch  of  svmpathy. 

4  Over  a  year.  I've  not  been  in  England  since,  and  I 
have  no  desire  to  go.' 

4  Then  you  do  not  love  her  ? '   she  asked. 

He  sighed  deeply  without  replying. 

She  did  not  follow  the  painful  subject  further,  but  com- 
menced chatting  of  their  tour  in  America,  and  of  the 
phenomenal  success  of  4 II  Parpaglione '  in  New  York, 
Chicago,  Philadelphia,  Boston,  and  the  other  great  cities. 


LIFE'S   FLOTSAM  269 

c  I  saw  lots  of  your  books  in  America,'  she  added. 
c  There  were  portraits  of  you  in  the  papers,  and  all  sorts 
of  laudatory  notices  of  your  last  novel.  You  really  ought 
to  go  over  there,  for  you'd  be  feted,  and  have  a  thoroughly 
good  time  of  it.' 

1  Perhaps  I  shall  go  some  day,'  he  answered.  c  At 
present  I  have  no  desire  to  leave  Tuscany.  All  is  so 
beautiful   here.' 

He  was  telling  her,  in  reply  to  her  questions,  how  he 
had  been  living  down  in  Lucca,  and  of  his  travels  since 
leaving  London,  when  suddenly  she  turned  into  a  gateway, 
with  a  lodge,  through  a  great,  well-kept  garden,  bright  with 
oleanders,  leading  to  a  handsome  villa,  a  house  he  had 
often  passed  and  admired. 

c  Are  you  going  to  make  a  call  ? '  he  inquired,  hesi- 
tating. 

c  No.  I'm  going  home.  We  live  here.  You  must 
come   in,   and   dine  with   us.      Father  will  be  delighted.' 

c  xA.nd  this  is  vour  house  ? '   he  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

'Yes,  father  bought  it  before  we  went  to  America  out  of 
the  profits  of  the  "  Parpaglione  "  in  London.  He  finds  it 
a  quiet  place  where  he  can  work  undisturbed,  and  we  are 
very  happy  here.'  And  as  they  wralked  together  along  the 
winding  approach  to  the  great  white  house,  with  its  fine 
marble  terrace,  and  green  sun-shutters,  he  saw  that  it  was 
without  doubt  the  best  residence  in  the  vicinity.  Curious 
it  was  that  times  without  number  he  had  looked  at  that 
place  without  any  suspicion  that  the  love  of  his  youth  lived 
there,  the  woman  whose  mysterious  action  had  once,  long 
ago,  entirely  changed  his  life. 

He  found  her  little  altered.  She  was  the  same  well- 
dressed,  chic,  yet  unaffected  woman  as  she  had  been  when 
in  London,  and  as  they  sat  together  in  the  cool,  elegant 
salon,   the    windows    of   which    opened    upon    the    terrace, 


2;o  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

commanding  a  wide  view  of  the  valley,  there  came  upon 
him  a  renewed  desire  for  life.  The  Marquis  was  out, 
therefore  they  sat  alone.  She  had  her  hat  still  on,  her 
gloves  cast  aside,  and  leaning  back  in  the  little  low  lounge- 
chair,  she  talked  to  him  with  all  that  vivacity  which  had  so 
long  ago  charmed  him. 

She  quickly,  however,  recognised  from  his  carelessness 
of  manner,  how  dull  and  aimless  was  his  life,  and  wondered 
why  he  had  left  the  woman  he  had  married,  and  had  ex- 
changed life  in  London  for  that  lonely  exile  in  which  he 
now  existed.  She  knew  but  little  of  the  bitterness  by 
which  his  past  had  been  fraught,  or  of  the  emptiness  of 
the  fame  which  had  tardily  come  to  him.  He  had  told 
her  nothing. 

As  he  sat  with  her  talking,  while  the  great  Apennines 
grew  purple  in  the  haze  of  the  dying  day,  and  the  distant 
bells  were  tolling  for  the  Ave  Maria,  one  thought  alone 
possessed  him,  that  he  must  leave  there.  To  remain  would 
jeopardise  them  both.     They  loved  each  other  too  well. 

When  they  had  been  chatting  for  half-an-hour  the  novel- 
ist rose,  declaring  that  he  must  go  back  to  the  hotel  for 
dinner. 

1  But  why  not  stay  and  dine  with  us  ?  '   she  asked  quickly. 

c  I  have  a  manuscript  to  dispatch  by  to-night's  post,'  he 
answered  with  quick  excuse.  c  A  short  story  for  one  of 
the   magazines.' 

1  Let  it  wait  until  to-morrow,'  she  urged.  c  Father  will 
be  in  before  half-past  six.      Do  stay  !  ' 

c  No,'  he  answered  gravely,  putting  forth  his  hand  to 
wish   her  good-bye. 

1  But  you  will  come  to-morrow,  Bertram  ?  '  she  asked, 
surprised   at   his  apparent   coldness. 

4  I  cannot  promise,'  he  answered  in  a  hoarse  voice,  full 
of  agitation.      c  I  may  leave  the  Baths  to-morrow.' 


LIFE'S   FLOTSAM  271 

1  Why  ?  '   she  inquired,  in  disappointment. 

He  hesitated  for  a  few  seconds,  his  dark  eyes  fixed  upon 
her. 

1  Because  I  have  a  wife,'  he  answered.  c  It  is  therefore 
best   that   we   should   not  meet.' 

c  Your  wife  !  '  she  said,  white-faced,  as  she  rose  deter- 
minedly, and  stood  before  him.  c  Yes,  it  is  true,  Bertram  ; 
your  wife  stands  between  us.  True,  alas  !  that  happiness 
cannot  be  ours.' 

He  bowed  his  head.  He  put  forth  his  hand  in  farewell, 
and  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  For  a  few  moments 
their  hands  clasped,  and  in  silence  more  eloquent  than 
words  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  he  forced 
himself  from  her  and  went  blindly  out,  while  she  sank 
back  into  her  chair  and  wept  bitterly. 

She  saw  that  even  now,  lonely  and  exiled  as  he  was, 
overburdened  by  a  weight  of  sorrow,  crushed  and  disap- 
pointed, he  was  nevertheless  full  of  manly  courage  and  a 
fierce  determination  not  to  deviate  from  what  was  right 
and  just  towards  the  woman  who  was  his  wife.  And  her 
love  for  him  grew  more  intense,  until  it  became  a  mad, 
ungovernable  passion. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

A    REVELATION 

Next  morning  Bertram  Rosmead  drove  back  over  the 
long,  dustv,  but  picturesque  road,  which  wound  through 
the  valleys  to  the  Ponte  a  Moriano,  and  thence  took  the 
little  steam  tram  through  the  vineyards  and  plantations  of 
olives  to  grev  old  Lucca. 

That  evening  he  again  sat  in  his  great,  gloomy  room 
overlooking  the  Piazza,  plunged  deep  in  thought.  From 
beneath  his  window  there  came  up  the  murmur  of  the 
crowd  who  had  assembled  to  listen  to  the  band,  which  at 
intervals  plaved  selections  from  the  c  Parpaglione '  and  other 
popular  operas.  But  in  his  state  of  mind  the  music  jarred 
upon  him,  and  rising,  he  closed  his  windows  to  shut  out 
the  sound.  Then  again  he  cast  himself  into  his  chair  and 
thought.  He  had  put  on  his  old  velveteen  writing  coat, 
and  sat  down  at  his  table  to  write  her  a  letter,  but  he  could 
not  decide  what  to  say  ;  therefore  he  flung  down  his  pen 
and  abandoned  the  idea. 

Upon  him  there  crowded  recollections  of  the  previous 
afternoon,  of  how  beautiful  Fosca  was,  of  her  tender  sym- 
pathy for  him.  He  had  noticed,  too,  on  a  table  near 
where  he  sat,  one  of  his  photographs  in  a  silver  frame,  and 
wondered  how  she  had  obtained  it.  Its  presence  in  her 
room  showed  that  she  did  not  desire  to  forget.  He  re- 
membered those  old  bvgone  davs  in  Paris,  those  davs  when 
they  walked  together  in  the  Bois,  or  wandered  out  into  the 


A   REVELATION  273 

country  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  and  pluck  the  flowers  with 
glee  as  great  as  though  they  were  children.  In  those  days 
they  lived  only  for  one  another,  supremely  content  in  each 
other's  love.  Even  now,  their  love  had  not  diminished  bv 
one  iota,  yet  there  was  a  barrier  between  them  which  shut 
them  out  from  that  rapturous  happiness  which  might  other- 
wise be  theirs.  He  loved  her  with  a  passion  he  had  striven 
in  vain  to  stifle,  and  it  had  cost  him  every  effort  of  which 
he  was  capable  to  tear  himself  from  her.  It  was  only 
thoughts  of  Lena  that  had  given  him  this  strength.  None 
should  say  that  he  had  ever  forgotten  his  duty  towards  her. 

Until  the  twilight  faded  he  sat  plunged  in  these  bitter 
memories  of  the  dead  past.  He  had  been  careless  and 
content  in  that  quiet  old  place,  until  he  had  met  the  woman 
he  loved.  Now  he  was  contemplating  leaving  Lucca  to 
go  forth  wandering  again.  In  that  hour  all  his  wretched- 
ness came  back  to  him,  his  desperate  struggle  for  fame  ; 
his  foolish,  romantic  marriage,  and  its  bitterness;  his  efforts 
to  reform  Lena  ;  and  his  subsequent  weary  travels,  alone 
and  outcast,  unable  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  labours,  and 
with  all  happiness  debarred  him.  Truly,  he  had  been  the 
sport  of  Fate  ! 

How  hard  it  was,  how  stubborn  were  his  thoughts. 
What  had  happened  to  all  those  old  and  quixotic  dreams ; 
those  impossible  castles  in  the  air;  those  great  ideals? 
He  shut  his  eves,  and  closed  his  ears  to  all  sounds.  He 
groped  vaguely  into  the  past,  his  brain  fumbled  among 
the  forgotten  things  of  forgotten  davs.  Suddenly  the  lost 
chord  of  his  memory  was  stirred,  and  he  recollected  his 
struggles  in  journalism  and  his  many  vague,  crude  ideas 
and  theories  and  thirty  shillings  a  week.  Well,  he  was 
happy  then,  before  Lena  fastened  herself  upon  him.  Those 
pet  theories  and  vague,  beautiful  ideas  and  thirty  shillings 
a  week  made  life  bearable,  even  in  dreary  Hounslow.      But 

18 


2;4  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

things   had   changed.      The   face  of  the  world   had   entirely 
changed  —  for  him. 

When  the  servant  came  to  tell  him  that  dinner  was 
ready,  he  roused  himself  and  passed  into  the  small  dining- 
room  adjoining,  where  a  single  cover  was  laid.  It  was  a 
lonely  meal,  and  he  ate  but  little,  merely  a  cutlet,  washed 
down  with  a  couple  of  glasses  of  good  Chianti  from  the 
great  rush-covered  flask  in  its  silver  stand.  Then  he  passed 
back  into  his  sitting-room,  gloomy  with  its  candles  in  their 
ancient  sconces,  the  great  old  apartment  dark  and  unlit  save 
in  the  vicinity  of  his  littered  writing-table. 

With  a  sigh  he  sank  there,  turned  up  his  cuffs,  —  a  habit 
he  had  acquired  when  on  the  Eve?iing  Telegraph,  —  and, 
taking  up  his  pen,  commenced  writing.  In  his  work  he 
forgot  everything.  To  drown  his  sorrows  he  wrote 
hard,  as  some  drink  when  they  would  obliterate  the  past. 
His  characters  lived  within  him  as  real  persons,  and  their 
lives  and  actions  absorbed  him  when  his  pen  was  flying 
across  sheet  after  sheet  of  that  ruled  paper  with  its  wide 
margin,  recording  the  lives  of  those  creations  of  his  brain. 
It  was  a  short  story  he  was  writing  for  the  Christmas 
number  of  an  American  magazine,  a  strange,  weird 
romance  of  love,  hatred,  and  lust  of  the  flesh,  and  he  wrote 
on  and  on  until  the  theatre  closed  and  the  Piazza  became 
silent,  deserted.  Then  he  took  a  cigarette  from  the  little 
Japanese  box  at  his  elbow  and  read  through  the  pages  of 
cramped,  uneven  writing  which  would  go  next  morning  to 
his  typewriter  in  London,  and  thence  to  Mr.  Howden,  who 
would  dispatch  it  to  New  York. 

Day  followed  day  without  much  diversion  in  his  calm 
and  melancholv  life.  He  wrote  hard  through  the  sunny 
hours,  and  at  evening  would  spend  an  idle  hour  beneath 
the  plane  trees  on  the  ancient  ramparts,  where  everyone 
went   to  get  a  breath  of  air  after  the   heat   and   burden   of 


A   REVELATION  275 

the  day.  He  had  sent  Lena  a  cheque  regularly  to  an 
address  she  had  given  in  Kensington,  but  for  three  con- 
secutive months  he  had  received  no  acknowledgment,  and 
had  had  no  news  of  her.  He  often  wondered  why  she  had 
not  written,  yet  he  sent  her  allowance  each  dav  it  was  due, 
registering;  the  letter  to  make  certain  she  received  it. 

He  was  sitting  late  one  afternoon,  writing  as  usual 
with  his  well-worn  '  Thesaurus '  open  at  his  elbow,  and 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  when  the  door  opened  softly 
and  the  servant  ushered  in  a  lady. 

He  turned  with  annovance  upon  the  intruder,  but  rose 
quickly  from  his  chair  and  bowed  when  he  saw  that  it  was 
Fosca. 

1  You  are  at  work,  Bertram,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
taking  his  hand  ;  '  I  hope  I  haven't  disturbed  you.  Will 
you  forgive  me  ?  ' 

1  Forgive  you  !  '  he  laughed.  c  Of  course  I  w7ill,'  and  he 
drew  forward  the  easiest  of  the  chairs  for  her.  l  I  have 
few  visitors  nowadavs,  so  vou  must  forgive  the  negligent 
appearance,'  he  added  half-apologeticallv,  remembering  that 
he  had  removed  his  collar,  and  that  his  hair  was  ruffled,  as 
it  always  was  when  he  wrote. 

c  I  am  not  classed  among  your  visitors,  I  hope,'  she  pro- 
tested smiling.  c  We  are  too  old  friends  for  any  apologies 
to  be  needed.  Remember  that  we  never  apologised  to  each 
other  in  the  dear  old  Quartier  long  ago.'  She  spoke  in 
French,  with  a  slight  Italian  roll  of  the  l  r's.' 

He  laughed,  as  he  tossed  his  pen  back  upon  the  table 
and  took  a  seat  near  her. 

c  But  we  are  no  longer  lovers,'  he  observed  with  a  sigh, 
growing  grave   an    instant  later. 

She  was  silent.  Her  lips  quivered.  She  had  come  to 
him  after  much  hesitation,  yet  now  she  feared  to  speak  lest 
he   should  hate  her. 


2-j6  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

1  We  cannot  be  lovers  since  you  have  married,'  she  said. 
1  Yet  we  mav  still  —  nay,  we  do  —  love  one  another.' 

She  spoke  the  truth,  and  he  bowed  his  head  in  acknow- 
ledgment. 

1  Yes,'  he  answered,  slowly,  c  I  love  you,  Fosca.  I  have 
never  in  my  life  loved  any  other  woman — ' 

4  Not  even  your  wife  ?  '   she  asked,  interrupting. 

c  No,'  he  assured  her,  speaking  in  a  sad,  mournful  tone, 
'  not  even  her.' 

1  Then  why  did  you  marry  ?     Was  it  for  money  ?  ' 

1  Xo.      She  was  penniless,'  he  answered. 

I  Then  vou  must  have  loved  her  ? ' 

I I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  never  loved  her.  I  married  her 
because  —  well,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  married  her  be- 
cause she  was  unhappv  at  home  and  I  pitied  her.' 

4  You  have  an  English  proverb  which  says  that  pity  is 
akin  to  love.' 

1  In  my  case  there  is  no  truth  in  such  an  assertion. 
Since  I  have  married  I  have  been  even  filled  with  disap- 
pointment  and    regret.' 

••Poor  Bertram  !  '  she  sighed  in  svmpathv.  c  How  manv 
times  I  have  thought  of  you  since  those  old  davs  in  Paris ; 
how  many  times  I  have  wondered  how  you  fared  \  how 
manv  times  have  I  told  mvself  that  of  all  men  1  have  loved 
onlv  vou  ?  ' 

c  And  vou  left  me,'  he  observed  bitterly.  '  There  was  a 
day,  Fosca,  when  you  cast  aside  my  love.' 

1  Ah,  yes,'  she  cried,  with  a  bitter  look  and  an  intense 
expression  in  her  eyes.  c  Would  that  I  could  recall  that 
wrong ;  would  that  I  could  explain  to  vou  the  reason  of 
my  strange  action  in  writing  that  letter  which  wrecked 
both   my   life  as   well  as  yours.' 

4  All  is  past  now,'  he  observed  in  a  calm  voice.  'We  are 
only  friends,  not  lovers.     Surely  you  can  tell  me  the  truth  ? ' 


A   REVELATION  277 

1  I  dare  not.' 

1  Whom  do  you  fear  ? ' 

1  No,  no,'  she  cried,  c  don't  cross-question  me.  Do  you 
not  think  that,  if  explanation  were  possible,  I,  loving  you 
as  well  as  I  do,  Bertram,  would  tell  you  everything  ?  But 
the  story  is  too  strange  for  you  to  believe  without  convinc- 
ing proof,  and  the  secret  too  dangerous  to  disclose,  even 
to  you.' 

His  lips  compressed,  and  a  shadow  of  disappointment 
crossed  his  wide,  open  forehead.  He  loved  her  passionately  ; 
but  this  mvsterious  secret  of  hers  seemed  as  a  barrier  be- 
tween  them.  While  she  declined  to  tell  him  the  reason  she 
had  left  Paris  on  that  day  so  long  ago  he  felt  dubious  as  to 
her  true,  honest  love.  On  his  part,  he  adored  her.  At 
that  very  moment  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  restrained 
himself  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  and  covering  her  lips 
with  hot,  passionate  kisses.  Yet,  in  the  years  that  had 
passed,  he  had  schooled  himself  to  an  outward  calmness 
and  indifference ;  he  was  no  longer  impetuous,  as  he  had 
been  in  the  old  days  of  joys  without  sorrow  and  of  loves 
without  a  morrow,  but  had  become  a  man  whose  grief  had 
soured  him  against  the  world's  pleasures,  and  whose 
hermit-like  habits  had  caused  him  to  become  morose,  cold, 
impassible. 

c  If  you  still  decline  to  tell  me  anything,  is  it  not  better 
that  we  should  remain  apart  ?  '  he  suggested,  with  a  touch 
of  impatience  in  his  voice,  throwing  back  his  head,  and 
looking  at   her   neat   figure  as   she   sat  there  before  him. 

'  I  have  come  to  you  to-day  to  ask  you  a  question,'  she 
said,  striving  to  remain  calm  notwithstanding  the  tumult 
of  emotions  within  her.  c  It  is  a  strange  one  for  a  woman 
to  ask  a  man.'  Then  she  hesitated.  ( 1  have  come  to  ask 
you,  Bertram,  if  you  really  entertain  the  same  affection  for 
me  as  vou  did  in   those   bv^one  davs  ;   to  ask  you  if  I  still 


278  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

have  a  place  within  your  heart  r  '  Her  voice  trembled,  and 
her  eyes  dropped  halt"  in  shame  at  the  strangeness  of  her 
question. 

1  Why  do  you  doubt  ?  '  he  inquired  quickly.  c  Surely  you 
see  how  dull  and  colourless  is  my  life,  how  useless  to  me  is 
all  this  empty  notoriety  they  call  fame ;  and  yet  you  come 
here  to  taunt  me  !  It  is  cruel  of  you,  Fosca ;  cruel,  be- 
cause you  know  that  in  these  wretched  circumstances  I 
have  no  freedom  to  love.  Through  these  years  of  my  fight 
for  fame,  mv  life  has  been  one  of  interminable  unhappiness. 
I  foolishly  thought,  as  so  many  other  men  have  thought, 
that  the  praise  of  the  public,  and  universal  popularity, 
would  bring  me  felicity,  but  I  have  only  found  the  fruit  of 
my  work  bitter,  and  that  having  obtained  that  for  which  I 
strove  so  long  and  earnestly,  I  have  now  no  heart  to  enjoy 
it.  See  there  ! '  and  he  pointed  to  a  great  pile  of  Press 
cuttings,  gummed  on  their  well-known  green  slips,  which 
had  arrived  from  London  an  hour  ago.  '  Among  those  you 
will  find  laudatory  paragraphs  about  me,  about  the  excel- 
lency of  my  work,  my  insight  into  character,  and  the  beau- 
tiful surroundings  of  this  my  home.  Men  less  fortunate, 
those  good-hearted  fellows,  the  journalists,  among  whom  I 
worked  through  the  years  of  my  struggles,  reading  these 
paragraphs,  envy  me  because  I  have  escaped  the  dreary  toil 
of  London  life.  They  think  I  live  in  sunshine,  work  only 
when  the  humour  seizes  me,  and  idle  away  my  hours  in  the 
country,  your  beautiful  Tuscany.  But  if  they  knew  the 
truth,  if  they  were  told  that  the  man  they  envy  was  world- 
weary,  broken-hearted,  and  sick  of  all  these  compliments, 
that  his  life  is  dismal  and  utterly  aimless,  they  would  per- 
haps hesitate  to  believe  it.  Few  know  of  my  domestic 
infelicity,  and  those  who  do  are  not  the  ones  to  give  it 
undue  publicity.  When  we  parted  at  the  Bagni,  I  had 
resolved    that   it   should   be   our    last    meeting,   p'osca,'    he 


A  REVELATION  279 

added,  in  a  broken  voice,  his  brow  furrowed  with  sorrow. 
1  It  is  best  that  we  should  remain  apart,  because  such 
meetings  as  these  only  serve  to  bring  back  memories  of  the 
past,  and  to  cause  us  to  reflect  upon  the  happy  might-have- 
beens.' 

Her  breast  slowly  rose  and  fell  beneath  its  lace  and  jet, 
and  he  saw  a  tear  glistening  upon  her  veil. 

c  So  you  only  think  of  me  as  an  old  friend,  and  not  as 
one  who  loves  you  ?  '  she  sighed.  c  I  feared  it  was 
so.' 

4  No,  no,'  he  hastened  to  assure  her,  leaning  forward 
quickly,  and  taking  her  hand.  (  Surely  you  have  never 
doubted  that  I  love  you,  Fosca  ?  God  knows  what  it  has 
cost  me  to  remain  apart  from  you.' 

His  face  was  pale  and  hard  set ;  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  hers  with  a  look  of  fierce  ardour  it  was  impossible  to 
mistake. 

1  Once  you  left  me  —  you  cast  me  aside,  and,  because  of 
it,  I  became  a  wanderer,  heedless  of  everything,'  he  con- 
tinued. c  Since  that  day  many  things  have  happened,  yet 
I  am  now  again  a  wanderer,  again  alone,  again  an  outcast, 
again  heart-broken.' 

c  Because  you  love  your  wife  !  '  she  exclaimed  bitterly. 
'You  love  this  heartless  woman  who  has  done  her  best  to 
ruin  you  ?  ' 

'  I  tell  you  I  do  not  love  her,'  he  cried  fiercely.  '  I  only 
pity  her.' 

Fosca's  brow  darkened  behind  her  veil.  She  raised  her 
hand  to  pull  the  flimsy  net  tighter  beneath  her  chin,  and  as 
she  did  so  the  last  gleam  of  sunshine  caught  her  diamond 
bangle,  and  caused  it  to  flash  with  all  the  colours  of  the 
spectrum. 

'  Why  do  you  pity  her  ?  '  she  asked  with  some  aspersion, 
which    showed   him   that   her  jealousy   had   been   aroused. 


280  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

'  She  has  no  thought  of  you.  She  hates  you,  and  she  is 
worthless  !  ' 

4  It  is  for  the  latter  reason  that  I've  left  her,'  he  an- 
swered  in   a   mechanical  voice. 

1  And  yet  you  still  think  alwavs  of  her  —  you  nurse  your 
sorrow,  and  appear  to  derive  a  bitter  satisfaction  from  doing 
so  !  '  she  exclaimed.  •  You,  who  are  popular,  who  are 
feted  in  society,  and  whose  books  are  read  by  everybody  in 
England  and  in  America,  need  not  be  so  dismal  and  lonely 
as  you  are.      Try  and  forget.' 

c  I  have  tried,'  he  answered.  c  I  have  tried  to  forget  you, 
Fosca,  but  am  unable ;   I  can  never  forget.' 

4  Then  you  still  love  me  ? '  she  cried,  starting  up,  falling 
upon  her  knees  before  him,  suddenly,  and,  raising  her  veil, 
took  both  his  hands  in  hers,  and  covered  them  with  hot, 
fervent   kisses. 

4  No,  no,  Fosca,'  he  cried,  placing  her  determinedly  from 
him,  and  gazing  upon  her  sadly.  4  It  is  true  that  I  love 
you  with  all  my  soul;  that  never  since  those  days  in  Paris 
has  any  woman  stirred  within  me  the  chord  of  affection. 
Yes  ;  I  answer  your  question  frankly  ;  I  adore  you.  But, 
alas  !  that  fact  does  not  lighten  our  burdens,  nor  does  it 
render  our  lives  the  brighter.  For  me  the  future  is  but  a 
sea  of  grey  despair  ;  but  for  you,  young,  beautiful,  the 
daughter  of  a  man  distinguished  and  popular,  there  is  life 
and  love  and  happiness.  From  to-day  let  us  both  forget. 
No  good  can  result  in  these  meetings,  for  they  only  create 
within  us  a  wistfulness  that  cannot  be  satisfied  ;  vague 
longings  for  that  which  we  can  never  attain.  Let  us  bury 
our  love,  and  forget,  Fosca.  Leave  me  to  my  sorrow,  and 
marry  some  man  worthy  of  you.  Obtain  happiness  your- 
self without  further  regard  for  me  ;  for  there  is  no  need 
that  both  our  lives  should  thus  be  wrecked,  or  that  this 
heritage   of  woe   should   sap  your  life  as  well   as  mine/ 


A   REVELATION  281 

1  But  I  love  you,  Bertram,'  she  cried,  in  a  passionate, 
tremulous  voice.  c  I  cannot  forget  —  I  shall  never  forget, 
I  —  I  cannot  live  without  your  love.' 

He  sighed  heavily,  still  holding  her  hands.  Her  pale 
face  was  upturned  to  his,  and  the  temptation  grew  upon 
him  to  bend  and  press  his  lips  to  hers.  But  he  drew  back, 
lest  he  should  lose  control  over  himself,  and  said  simply : 

1  Try  to  forget.' 

CI  cannot.  It  is  impossible,'  she  declared  wildly.  'We 
love  each  other.     It  is  destiny.' 

He  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence.  The  stray  ray  of 
the  sunset  glow,  slanting  in  through  the  half-open  sun- 
shutters,  caught  her  hair,  and  seemed  to  surround  her  head 
with  a  golden  halo.  Never  before  had  she  seemed  such  a 
perfect  incarnation  of  grace  and  beautv  as  there,  upon  her 
knees,  she  bent  before  him. 

c  Yes,'  he  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice,  c  it  is  destiny,  Fosca, 
a  bitter  destiny,  that  we  should  thus  be  held  asunder.  But 
what  must  be,  must  be.' 

For  a  moment  they  were  hand  in  hand,  heart  to  heart, 
soul  with  soul. 

1  If  you  were  free  —  if,  in  years  to  come,  events  occur 
so  that  you  obtain  your  freedom,  would  you  then  many 
me  ?  '  she  asked  at  last,  in  an  intense  but  faltering  tone,  her 
nervous  hands  trembling  in  his. 

'Yes,  of  course  I  would,'  he  responded  quickly.  c  But 
why  do  you  ask  that  ?  What  strange  fancy  possesses 
you  ? ' 

She  rose  to  her  feet  slowly,  and  stood  before  him,  her 
face  grave,  her  eyes  downcast. 

c  You  force  me  to  tell  you,  Bertram,'  she  said,  in  a 
strained  tone,  quite  unusual  to  her  —  the  voice  of  one  in 
desperation.  c  If  I  did  not  love  you  as  passionately  as  I  do, 
I  would,  I   assure  you,  never  utter  to  you  the  words  I  am 


282  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

about  to  utter.  You  may  attribute  what  I  am  about  to  tell 
you  to  a  fierce,  mad  jealousy.  Well,  I  admit  I  am  jealous. 
But  it  is  the  truth,  a  terrible  truth,  which  I  will  reveal  to 
you  if  you  promise  to  forgive  me  for  uttering  it.' 

He  looked  at  her  in  quick  surprise. 

1  Of  course  I  forgive  you.  Tell  me  what  it  is/  he 
asked. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  pale  and  breathless., 

1  Do  you  know  a  man  named  Vizard  —  Sir  Douglas 
Vizard  ? ' 

c  Vizard  ?  '  he  repeated.  c  Yes,'  he  answered,  suddenly 
recollecting.  c  My  wife  introduced  him  to  me  at  Monte 
Carlo.      An  old  man,  with  grey  whiskers.' 

She  nodded.     Then  a  silence  fell  between  them. 

c  Well  ? '  he  asked  at  last.     « What  of  him  ? ' 

c  Bertram,'  she  answered  gravely,  her  voice  trembling, 
1  that  man   is  your  wife's  lover  ! ' 

The  effect  of  her  words  was  almost  electrical.  He 
started  from  his  chair  with  clenched  fists,  his  brow  fur- 
rowed, his  mouth  agape,  his  eyes  staring  at  her  fixedly  ;  his 
attitude  that  of  a  man  who  had  made  a  discovery  so  unex- 
pected and  amazing  that  it  held  him  petrified. 

1  My  wife's  lover  ?  '  he  echoed,  when  at  length  he  found 
tongue. 

c  Yes,'  she  answered  calmly.  '  He  was  that  woman's 
lover  before  her  marriage  with  you,  and  he  is  so  still.  If 
you  doubt  my  words  it  will  not  be  difficult  for  you  to  obtain 
proof.  I  told  you  a  short  time  ago  that  this  woman,  to 
whom  you  are  so  loyal  and  true,  is  worthless.  Now  I  have 
revealed  to  you  the  truth.' 

Lena  was  worthless.  Had  not  Teddy  O'Donovan  often 
used  that  very  same  expression  ?  He  had  evidently  been 
aware  of  the  hideous  truth,  but  had  hesitated  to  reveal  it. 
If  it   were   actually  true,  then   he   had  been   a  blind,   con- 


A   REVELATION  283 

riding  fool  through  these  years  of  toil  and  sorrow,  believing 
always  in  his  wife's  fidelity. 

With  such  tumultuous  thoughts  surging  through  his 
troubled  brain,  he  stood  before  the  woman  he  so  dearly 
loved,  bowed,  dumbfounded,  spell-bound. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

AT    THE    GREY    HOUSE 

On  Sunday  morning,  a  week  after  Fosca  had  visited 
Bertram  in  Lucca,  Teddy  O'Donovan  entered  his  studio, 
tired  and  rather  lazy  after  a  late  Saturday  night  at  the 
Savage.  The  chairman  at  the  house-dinner  had  been  a 
popular  favourite,  and  had  wielded  the  savage  club  to  the 
satisfaction  and  amusement  of  everybody ;  the  speeches  had 
sparkled  with  wit,  O'Dell,  that  merry  old  Bohemian  whose 
striking  figure  is  so  well-known  in  the  vicinity  of  Adelphi 
Terrace,  had  recited  one  of  his  oft-repeated  pieces  by  c  his 
dear  departed  brother  —  Savage  Edgar  Lee,' William  Nicol 
had  sung  one  of  his  sweetest  ballads,  Phil  May  had 
sketched  some  of  his  inimitable  caricatures,  George  Gros- 
smith  had  dropped  in  late  and  convulsed  them  with  his 
drolleries,  while  the  tobacco  smoke  had  been  exactly  of 
that  density  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  c  Savage.'  The 
house-dinner  is  never  voted  a  success  unless  the  smoke 
assumes  a  certain  density,  and  O'Dell  is  not  present  to  pass 
his  verdict  upon  the  quality  of  the  food. 

Teddy's  mouth  was  parched,  and  his  clothes  smelt 
strongly  of  overnight  cigars. 

1  Late  last  night,'  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  stood 
contemplating  his  unfinished  canvas.  ■  Must  have  been 
nearly  five  before  I  tumbled  in.'  Then  he  laughed  merrily 
to  himself  as  he  recollected  how,  on  leaving  the  club,  he, 
with  several  other  kindred  spirits,  well-known  writers  and 


AT  THE   GREY   HOUSE  285 

painters,  had  gone  at  four  in  the  morning  to  the  coffee- 
stall  at  the  corner  of  St.  Martin's  Lane  and  Charino-  Cross 
and  there  ate  up  all  the  hard-boiled  eggs  previous  to 
driving  home  in  a  procession  of  hansoms.  Like  many 
workers  in  other  spheres  of  life,  Bohemian  London  toils 
hard  all  the  week  and  gives  itself  a  holiday  on  Saturday 
night.  Teddy  cared  little  for  the  many  society  functions 
to  which  he  was  bidden,  but  he  never  missed  the  house- 
dinner  at  the  Savage. 

He  contemplated  his  unfinished  canvas  for  some 
minutes,  then  crossed  to  an  old  carved-oak  cabinet  and 
mixed  himself  a  remedy  for  his  debility  in  the  shape  of  a 
brandy  and  soda.  Scarcely,  however,  had  he  put  down  the 
glass  when  the  door  opened. 

He  turned  quickly,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  old  friend  Rosmead. 

c  By  Jove,  Bertram,  old  fellow  !  '  he  cried  gaily,  rushing 
across  to  meet  his  visitor.  'You're  about  the  very  last  man 
I  should  have  expected.  Come  in.  Come  in,  my  dear  old 
boy.  Some  fellows  at  the  "  Savage "  were  only  last  night 
asking  about  you.     We  all  thought  you  were  still  in  Italy.' 

c  I  only  left  two  days  ago,  and  have  travelled  straight 
through.  I  arrived  last  night,'  the  novelist  answered, 
tossing  aside  his  soft  felt  hat,  and  flinging  himself  into  the 
nearest  arm-chair,  with  a  sigh  of  weariness. 

1  You're  tired,'  the  artist  said.  l  Have  a  drink,'  and 
crossing  to  the  cabinet,  he  returned  a  moment  later  with  a 
long  brandy  and  soda. 

The  novelist  swallowed  it  slowlv  without  a  word,  then 
placed  the  empty  glass  from  him.  His  face  was  pale,  his 
brow  deep  furrowed,  and  his  friend  did  not  fail  to  notice 
the  great  change  effected  in  him  during  the  eighteen  months 
of  his  absence. 

1  Have  you  come  back  to   stay  ?  '   he  asked,  as  he  seated 


286  SCRIBES   AND  PHARISEES 

himself  with  his  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
a  habit  of  his  when  in  conversation,  c  or  do  you  intend 
leaving  us  again  ?  Tell  me,  old  fellow,  how  are  things 
going  ? ' 

1  As  usual,'  the  novelist  responded,  in  a  wearied  voice. 
4  I've  not  come  home  to  stay.      Only  to  see  you.' 

4  Why  ?  '  his  friend  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

c  I've  come  to  —  to  speak  to  you  about  Lena.  Have  you 
seen  her  lately  ? ' 

c  Not  very  lately,'  the  other  replied,  in  a  low,  serious 
tone.  (  I  met  her  in  the  Strand  a  month  ago.  She  spoke 
to  me,  and  asked  if  I  had  heard  of  you.' 

1  How  was  she  ?  ' 

1  She  seemed  much  the  same  as  usual,  although  evidence 
was  not  wanting  that  she  had  been  drinking.' 

Bertram  sighed,  and  was  silent.  He  glanced  around 
his  friend's  comfortable,  artistic   home,  and    envied   him. 

Teddy  saw  how  deeply  his  friend's  sorrow  weighed  upon 
him,  and  changed  the  subject.  They  talked  of  mutual 
friends,  men  well  known  in  literature  and  art,  brother 
1  Vagabonds '  and  brother  l  Savages.'  The  artist  related 
the  latest  droll  story  told  across  the  table  on  the  previous 
night,  but  the  novelist's  laughter  had  not  that  same  genuine 
ring  as  of  old.  His  gaiety  was  artificial,  his  amusement 
feigned.  Truth  to  tell,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  hear  the 
witty  repartee  of  the  men  who  had  once  been  his  boon 
companions.  When  one  is  absent  from  London  one  is 
soon  forgotten,  and  it  was  gratifying  to  think  that  he  was 
still  remembered  in  the  set  wherein  he  had  once  been  a 
well-known  figure.  Bertram  Rosmead  had  but  few  enemies 
outside  the  reporting  staff  of  the  Evening  Telegraph,  that 
brilliant  little  band  who  were  so  consumed  by  jealousy, 
and  the  reason  of  his  decision  to  live  on  the  Continent  had 
long  been  the  subject  of  much  speculation.      Not  half-a- 


AT   THE   GREY    HOUSE  287 

dozen  people  were  aware  of  the  truth,  or  knew  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Rosmead  had  parted. 

The  novelist  answered  his  friend's  questions  mechan- 
ically, heeding  the  conversation  little,  his  mind  centred  upon 
the  one  object  of  his  visit. 

4  Teddy,'  he  exclaimed  at  last,  in  a  deep,  earnest  voice, 
looking  at  the  artist  with  dark,  thoughtful  eyes.  c  I  have 
travelled  from  Italy  here  to  see  you,  in  order  to  ask  you  a 
question.' 

'  Well,'  asked  his  friend,  surprised. 

'  Long  ago  you  often  said  that  Lena  was  worthless,  and 
you  urged  me  to  leave  her.     Why  ?  ' 

1  Because  —  well,  because  she  was  ruining  all  your  pros- 
pects, my  dear  fellow,'  the  other  replied.  c  My  prophecy 
was  fulfilled.  You  were  compelled  at  last  to  part  from 
her.  No  man  on  earth  could  have  borne  the  burden 
longer.' 

c  Yes,'  he  said,  gravely.  c  But  why  did  you  allege  that 
she  was  worthless  ?  You  would  never  tell  me.  Surely 
you  can  tell  me  now  ? ' 

Teddy  hesitated  for  a  moment,  his  brows  knit,  for  his  old 
friend  held  him   in   a  tight  corner. 

1  No,  my  dear  old  chap,'  he  answered  at  last.  c  It's  best 
that  I  should  not  tell  you  the  reason.' 

'  You  decline  ?  ' 

c  Yes,  I  decline.  You've  left  her,  and  that's  enough. 
Why  think  any  more  of  her  when  she's  forgotten 
you  ? ' 

'  My  wife  has  forgotten  her  duty  towards  me,  and  you 
hesitate  to  tell  me,'  he  said,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  those  of  his 
friend. 

The  artist  sat  immovable,  and  did  not  answer. 

c  I  have  discovered  the  truth,'  he  went  on,  in  a  harsh, 
bitter  tone.     '  My  wife's  lover  is  Sir  Douglas  Vizard,  the 


288  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

man  who  speaks  at  religious  meetings  and  gives  addresses  to 
young  men.  Tell  me,  is  that  true  ? '  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
that   would   brook  no  denial. 

c  Yes,  since  you  ask,  Bertram,  that  is  the  truth,'  the 
artist    replied,   in   a  pained  voice. 

I  And  yet  you  would  not  tell  me  ? '  Bertram  observed,  in 
a  tone   of  reproach. 

4 1  hinted  it  to  you  often,  but  I  feared  to  tell  you  the 
truth,'  he  said.      (  Your  life  was  full  enough  of  sorrow.' 

'  How  did  you  become  aware  of  it  ?  '  he  asked.  c  Tell 
me   all.' 

I I  knew  Vizard,'  he  said,  after  a  few  moments'  hesita- 
tion. c  A  friend  introduced  us,  and  one  night,  some  months 
before  your  marriage,  I  accepted  his  invitation  to  smoke 
with  him  at  his  chambers  in  Staple  Inn.  Before  I  left  a 
girl  came  there,  took  off  her  hat,  drank  with  us,  and,  from 
the  manner  in  which  she  made  herself  at  home,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  she  was  no  stranger  to  the  place.  I  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance,  but  judge  mv  horror  when,  some 
months  later,  you  introduced   her  to   me   as  your  wife.' 

Bertram  remained  in  silence  a  few  moments. 

'She  must  have  recognised  vou,'  he  said.  c  That  would 
account  for  her  inexpressible  hatred  of  vou.  She  feared 
lest  you   might  betray  her.' 

4  A  hundred  times  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  telling 
you  the  truth,'  the  artist  exclaimed,  svmpathetically.  «  Yet 
I  always  hesitated,  feeling  that  your  grief  was  sufficient  for 
you  to  bear,  that  you  must  sooner  or  later  part  from  her, 
and  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  remain  in  ignorance, 
as  knowledge  of  it  could  only  make  your  life  more  full  of 
bitterness.' 

1  Yes,  yes.  I  see  it  all  now,'  the  novelist  answered.  c  I 
see  what  a  fool  I  was  to  disregard  your  repeated  advice. 
But  I   hoped  that  she  would  reform.      I  strove  my  hardest 


AT  THE   GREY   HOUSE  289 

to  break  her  of  her  intemperate  habits,  nearly  ruining  my- 
self in  the  futile  effort.  Now,  at  last,  the  truth  has  been 
revealed  in  all  its  hideousness.  Her  craving  for  life  in 
London  is  explained  by  her  desire  to  be  near  the  man  she 
loved,  and  to  visit  him  secretly.  She  never  entertained  any 
affection  for  me,  and  only  married  me  in  order  to  obtain  a 
superficial  honesty.' 

1 1  told  you  she  was  worthless,'  O'Donovan  exclaimed. 
'She  deceived  you  with  a  cool,  deliberate  cunning  that  was 
amazing.  But  why  trouble  over  her  now  ?  It  is  all  of  the 
past.  A  woman  of  her  character  is  not  worthy  a  single 
moment's  serious  thought.' 

A  tap  at  the  door  prevented  the  novelist  from  replying, 
and  Manton,  the  maid,  entered  with  a  card. 

Her  master  took  it,  glanced  at  the  name,  and  then  gazed 
across  at  his  friend  open-mouthed. 

4  Show  the  lady  up,'  he  replied,  then  passed  the  card 
across  to  Bertram. 

The  name  upon  it  was  l  Fosca  Farini.' 

Scarcely  had  Rosmead  expressed  his  amazement  when 
Fosca,  looking  fresh  and  dainty  in  a  neat  costume  of  blue- 
grey  trimmed  with  cream,  girdled  narrow  but  distinctive, 
entered  the  room  with  a  frou-frou  of  skirts  and  laces,  and, 
as  both  men  rose  to  greet  her,  she  drew  back  in  surprise  at 
confronting  the  man  she  loved. 

'I  thought  you  were  still  in  Lucca,'  she  said,  as  her  hand 
lingered  in  his  for  an  instant.  c  How  strange  that  we 
should  meet  again  here !  How  long  have  you  been  in 
London  ?  ' 

4 1  arrived  last  night,'  he  answered. 

1  And  I  also,'  she  said.  c  I  travelled  home  via  Milan 
and  Bale  to  Calais.  Surely  vou  did  not  come  by  the  same 
route  ? ' 

1  No,'   he    replied.     " 1    travelled    by  Turin,  Paris,   and 

l9 


290  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

Dieppe.  We  must  both  have  arrived  in  London  at  the 
same  time.' 

1  Yes,'  she  said.  8  And  our  errands  both  have  the  same 
object.' 

( The  same  ?  I  don't  understand,'  answered  the  man 
she  loved,  looking  at  her  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

4  We  have  both  come  to  discover  the  truth;  you  to 
obtain  proof  of  your  wife's  perfidy,  I  to  obtain  freedom 
from  a  yoke  which  for  years  has  galled  me,  and  for  years 
has   prevented   me   from   telling  you  the  truth.' 

1  Your  secret  !  '  he  cried,  quickly.  *  Do  you  anticipate 
freedom   from  the  bond  of  silence  ?  ' 

1  I  do,'  she  said.  c  I  have  striven,  and  have  still  to  strive 
towards  that  end.' 

1  The  revelation  you  made  of  my  wife's  infidelity  has 
been  fully  borne  out.  Teddy  has  confirmed  your  words,' 
the  novelist  said,  in  a  despondent  tone.  •  So  confident  was 
I  of  her  chastity  that  I  felt  inclined  to  regard  your  state- 
ment as  the  outcome  of  a  natural  jealousy,  but  from  what 
I  have  learnt  to-day  there  can  be  no  doubt.  That  she 
drank  to  excess  was  true,  but  I  have  all  along  looked  upon 
her  failing  with  leniency,  because  I  believed  her  to  be  an 
honest,  upright  woman.  But  she  is  guilty  —  and  I  hate 
her.' 

c  You  love  me,  Bertram  ?  '  Fosca  cried  in  earnestness, 
grasping  his  hands  and  looking  into  his  face.  c  You  love 
me?' 

1  Yes,'  he  answered,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  '  It  is  true, 
Fosca,   I   love  you.' 

'Then,  hear  me!'  she  said,  her  face  pale,  her  slim 
figure  a  trifle  tragic.  '  If  you  believe  in  my  honesty  and 
in   my   love   for  you,  come  with  me.' 

'Where?' 

«  To  her.' 


AT  THE   GREY   HOUSE  291 

cTo  my  wife  !  '  he  cried.  'No.  To-night  I  shall  leave 
England  again.  I  have  neither  desire  to  see  her,  nor  to 
drag  my  name  through  the  mire  of  the  Divorce  Court.  I 
know  the  truth.     That  is  sufficient.' 

Her  brows  contracted  for  an  instant.  His  words  were 
not  reassuring. 

c  But  for  my  sake  —  Bertram  —  for  my  sake/  she 
implored. 

'  You  are  the  woman  I  love,'  he  cried.  c  How  can  I 
accompany  you  ?  ' 

4  She  has  no  love  for  you,'  Fosca  declared.  c  You  have 
already  told  me  that  she  has  ceased  to  write  to  you  long 
ago.  Come  with  me.  I  cannot  speak  unless  you  are  face 
to  face.' 

c  What  do  you  mean  ? '  asked  the  novelist,  surprised. 
1  What  do  you  intend  doing  ? ' 

1  Wait  and  see,'  she  answered.  c  You  have  long  de- 
manded an  explanation,  and  I  am  now  ready  to  make  it, 
providing  that  for  one  brief  hour  you  will  conform  to  my 
wishes.      Teddy  will  also  come.' 

c  Why  ? '  inquired  the  artist.  c  Such  a  breach  between 
husband  and  wife  can  only  be  settled  in  the  Divorce 
Court.' 

4  But  your  presence  is  also  necessary,'  she  urged.  c  You 
must  come  — you  hear,  you  must.' 

'  Is  it  not  best  to  let  the  wretched  woman  alone,  now 
that  Bertram  has  learnt  the  truth  ?  if  he  is  determined 
not  to  divorce  her,  to  visit  her  will  only  cause  unnecessary 
pain  to  everybody  concerned.' 

4  I  tell  you  that  you  must  both  come  with  me.  I  have 
travelled  here  from  Italy  with  that  purpose.  In  Lucca  I 
learnt  that  Bertram  had  left  for  London,  and  I  followed 
only  a  couple  of  hours  after  he  had  left.  Bertram  must 
come  with   me.     No   matter   how   it   pains   him,  he   must 


292  SCRIBES  AND   PHARISEES 

have  one  last  interview  with  this  woman ;  and  you,  his  best 
friend,  may  certainly  be  present.  Do  not  hesitate,  but 
come.     Let  us  go  at  once.' 

« Where  ? ' 

1  To  Sir  Douglas's  chambers,  in  Staple  Inn.  She  lives 
there.' 

'Lives  there!'  echoed  the  novelist,  in  a  hard  voice. 
'  And  I  have  been  supporting  her  all  this  time !  The 
monev  I  have  been  sending  her  has  been  spent  by  this 
man,  who  has,  no  doubt,  laughed  at  my  blissful  ignorance.' 

1  Don't  let  us  lose  time,'  Fosca  cried  anxiously.  c  See,' 
she  added,  pointing  to  the  clock,  '  it  is  alreadv  midday. 
Let  us  go.' 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Both  men  were  impressed 
by  her  strange  earnestness  of  manner,  and  neither  offered 
further  excuse.  Teddy  changed  his  coat,  and,  during  his 
absence,  Bertram  pressed  the  hand  of  his  well-beloved. 

1  When  I  have  convinced  you  of  the  truth,'  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice  of  determination,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
c  you  will  see  how  terriblv  I  have  suffered,  how  my  secret 
has  held  me  in  a  grip  of  terror,  and  why  we  were  so  sud- 
denly placed  asunder.  You  still  believe  that  once,  long 
ago,  I  ruthlessly  cast  aside  all  thought  of  you,  and  aban- 
doned you,  because  you  were  poor.  Well,  when  you  have 
heard  me,  you  shall  be  my  judge.' 

c  Have  you  at  last  resolved  to  disclose  that  secret  you 
have  for  so  long  carefully  guarded  ? '  he  asked,  with  a 
quick,   renewed  interest. 

1  Be  patient,  and  see,'  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  confi- 
dence. '  If  I  do,  my  words  will  astound  you.  The  truth 
is  incredible.      The  facts  almost  stagger  belief.' 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE    TRUTH 

Half-an-hour  later  all  three  alighted  from  a  closed  cab  in 
Holborn,  opposite  that  narrow  court  which  gives  entrance 
to  Staple  Inn,  and  together  they  ascended  the  dark,  well- 
worn  stairway  to  the  door  which  bore  Sir  Douglas  Vizard's 
name. 

Fosca  and  Bertram  drew  back,  and,  in  answer  to  the 
knock,  there  was  a  shuffling  of  feet,  the  clanking  of  a  chain, 
and,  a  moment  later,  the  stout  old  baronet  himself  opened 
the  door,  and,  recognising  Teddy,  asked  him  in. 

He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  dirtv,  unshaven,  and  wore  list 
slippers.  His  scanty  hair  was  ruffled,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  only  just  risen.  As  the  artist  stepped  inside 
his  two  companions  followed  him  quicklv  into  the  tiny  hall, 
much  to  the  amazement  of  the  baronet,  who  saw  instantly 
how  neatly  he  had  been  tricked. 

c  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  '  he  inquired,  turning 
quicklv  to  them. 

'  My  wife  is  here,'  cried  the  novelist.  c  I  have  come  to 
search  for  her.' 

The  old  man  laughed  a  coarse,  forced  laugh  as  Bertram 
brushed  past  him,  and,  entering  the  sitting-room,  confronted 
Lena,  standing  near  the  window,  erect,  and  pale  to  the  lips. 

Her  hair  was  towsled ;  she  wore  an  old  flannel  dressing- 
gown,  which  had  once  been  pale  blue,  but  had  now  assumed 
a   shade  of  dirty  grey  ;  her  face  was   unwashed,  her    feet 


294  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

thrust  into  shoes  several  sizes  too  large  for  her.  She  stood 
confused  and  speechless  before  her  husband,  her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  threadbare  carpet.  The  place  smelt  close, 
stuffy,  and   nauseating. 

As  Fosca  entered  with  the  artist  she  glanced  furtively  at 
them  j  then  her  teeth  set  themselves  in  fierce  desperation, 
and  a  shudder  ran  through  her.  Her  clenched  hands  trem- 
bled as  though  palsied ;  her  face  assumed  an  ashen  hue. 
She  was  quite  sober,  and,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  was  conscious  of  her  shame. 

1  Well,  sir,'  cried  Bertram,  furiously  turning  to  the  sham- 
bling old  Pharisee,  c  and  what  explanation,  pray,  have  you 
to  offer  ?  ' 

'  Ask    your   wife,'   he    answered,  with  a  sarcastic    grin. 
c  She'll  no  doubt  tell  you  the  truth,  as  she  always  has  done.' 
The   novelist  turned  to  the  wretched,  trembling  woman, 
but,  in  an  instant,  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  hysterical  peni- 
tence, she  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  before  him,  crying  : 
1  Ah,  no  !   Bertram.      Forgive  me  !      Forgive  ! ' 
She  tried  to  clutch  his  hands,  but  he  drew  back  from  her 
contact  in  loathing. 

1  Sav  that  you  will  forgive  me,  Bertram,'  she  implored  in 
a  wild  voice.  l  I  have  been  a  weak,  wretched  woman,  I 
know.  To  you  I've  been  a  burden  always.  But  forgive. 
See  !   here,  on  my  knees  before  them  all,  I  crave  one  word 

of  pardon  ;   I   ask  you   to ' 

4  Hear  me  before  you  reply,'  cried  Fosca,  advancing  with 
outstretched  hand,  and  with  a  look  of  scorn  upon  the  peni- 
tent woman  bowed  upon  her  knees  at  her  husband's  feet. 
Then,  turning  to  the  artist,  she  said  :  c  First,  lock  that  door. 
What  is  said  in  this  room  must  not  go  beyond  it.' 

The  artist  put  his  hand  upon  the  key,  turned  it,  and 
quickly  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  in  accordance  with  instruc- 
tions she  had  given  him  on  their  way  thither.      Seeing  this, 


THE   TRUTH  295 

the  baronet's  attitude  underwent  a  change.  The  supercil- 
ious smile  upon  his  gross,  bloated  face  gave  place  to  a  look 
of  mingled  surprise  and  alarm.  So  sudden  had  been  this 
intrusion  that  he  had  had  no  time  to  prepare  a  defence. 

c  I  object  to  be  thus  locked  in  my  own  room,'  he  cried 
resentfully.      l  Kindly  open  that  door  again.' 

1  Not  yet,'  Teddy  answered  firmly.  '  When  we  have 
finished,  you  and  your  companion  shall  be  released.  Until 
then,  compose  yourself.' 

1  Listen,'  said  Fosca,  addressing  the  man  she  loved. 
c  Before  pardoning  this  woman,  who  has  sinned  before  man 
and  God,  reflect  upon  the  statement  I  am  now  about  to 
make  —  a  statement  which  is  true,  and  every  fact  of  which 
I  will  afterwards  verify.' 

Lena,  struggling  unevenly  to  her  feet,  staggered  to  her 
chair,  and  gripped  it  for  support,  her  face  blanched  and  hag- 
gard, her  wild  eyes  with  dark  rings  around  them,  and  a 
strange  expression   of  abject  terror  in  their  depths. 

'  Lies  ! '  she  gasped.  c  This  woman  is  known  as  a  vile 
adventuress.  Do  not  believe  her,  Bertram  !  She  loves  you, 
and  is  prompted  by  jealousy.' 

'  You  fear  the  truth,'  Fosca  cried,  with  flashing  eyes. 
1  But  you  have  done  your  best  to  deceive  and  ruin  a  man  of 
whom  you  were  unworthy,  and  I  will  not  spare  you.' 

c  I  do  not  fear  you,'  Lena  answered  defiantly.  c  Speak. 
Utter  what  foul  libels  you  like.      They  cannot  hurt  me.' 

c  First,'  Fosca  said,  turning  to  the  grey-faced  old  baronet, 
who  stood  near  his  companion,  fidgeting  with  ill-disguised 
alarm.  '  That  man  there  is  an  evil  blackmailer,  beneath 
whose  thrall  I  have  remained  all  these  years,  and  un- 
der whose  influence  I  would  have  fallen  had  I  not  fought 
against   him.' 

'You're  a  liar  ! '  he  cried  fiercely. 

c  Then  listen,  while  I  explain,'  she  said,  turning  to  the 


296  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

artist.  l  In  order  to  view  the  facts  aright,  carry  your  re- 
collection back  to  those  days  in  Paris  when  you,  Teddy, 
loved  Violette,  and  when  Bertram  and  I  were  lovers.  In 
those  summer  days  when,  stifled  at  my  lace-counter  at  the 
Louvre,  I  was  glad  of  any  pretext  to  escape,  a  man  came 
one  day  and  asked  for  some  lace  to  be  sent  on  approval  to 
a  lady  who  was  ill  at  the  Hotel  Continental,  requesting  that 
I  might  be  sent  with  it.  I  went  that  afternoon,  taking  with 
me  some  expensive  pieces  of  old  Venetian,  but  found  that 
the  man's  story  of  a  lady  being  ill  was  a  fabricated  one,  and 
that  he  had  done  this  because  he  wished  for  an  opportunity 
to  talk  with  me.  He  admired  me,  he  said,  ordered  some 
tea  for  me,  chatted,  bought  a  length  of  lace,  and  I  went 
away,  after  promising  to  meet  him  again  on  the  following 
Sunday.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  flattered  me  that  I 
flirted  with  him.  I  told  him  of  my  student-lover,  and  he 
laughed,  amused  that  I  should  thus  deceive  him.'  Turning 
to  the  novelist,  she  said,  '  You  will  remember  that  for  two 
or  three  Sundays  in  succession  we  did  not  meet.  I  made 
excuses  that  my  mother  was  ill,  and  it  was  my  duty  to 
visit   her.' 

c  Yes,'  he  said,  in  a  deep  voice,  c  I  well  remember.  Who 
was  this  man  that  came  between  us  ?  ' 

(  The  man  before  you  —  Sir  Douglas  Vizard,'  Fosca  an- 
swered, without  hesitation.  '  He  said  he  loved  me,  but  I 
nevertheless  still  loved  you.  We  met  often,  and  he  gave 
me  some  pretty  presents,  which  I,  of  course,  concealed  from 
you  ;  I  was  deceiving  you,  yet  never  for  a  moment  did  my 
affection  waver — that  I  swear.  Why  I  did  this  I  cannot 
tell.  I  was  young  then,  and  by  the  man's  title  I  thought 
him  rich  and  distinguished.  I  did  not  then  know  that  he 
was  a  penniless  adventurer,  who  picked  up  a  precarious 
livelihood  by  selling  his  name  to  the  directors  of  shady 
companies.      In  those  days  I  knew  nothing  of  such  things, 


THE  TRUTH  297 

believing  an  English  baronet  to  be  a  man  of  honour.  Well, 
we  met  several  times  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  and  beneath 
the  trees  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  and  each  time  he  tried  to 
induce  me  to  relinquish  all  thought  of  you.  One  day  in 
summer,  however,  he  came  into  the  Louvre  on  pretence  of 
buying  lace,  and  made  an  appointment  to  meet  me  that 
evening;  in  the  little  garden  in  the  Rue  du  Cloitre,  behind 
Notre  Dame.' 

c  The  place  where  Violette  was  murdered  !  '  exclaimed 
Teddv,  all  the  vivid  details  of  that  mysterious  crime  surging 
across  his  brain.      l  And  you  met  him  there  ? ' 

4  Yes,'  she  answered.  c  He  had  told  me  where  to  meet 
him,  at  a  seat  beneath  the  wall  of  the  cathedral,  and  when 
I  entered  the  garden  and  approached  it,  I  saw  a  woman 
sitting  there.      It  was  the  woman   you   knew  as  Violette.' 

c  Violette  !  '   the  artist  gasped.      l  You  saw  her  ?  ' 

1  Yes.  I  was  about  to  pass  by,  but  something  in  her 
attitude  struck  me  as  curious.  She  was  in  pain,  holding 
both  hands  to  her  breast,  and  I  saw  the  stain  of  blood. 
Upon  the  ground,  at  my  feet,  lay  a  revolver.  I  picked  it 
up,  then  rushed  towards  her  to  lend  her  aid.  No  one  was 
present,  and  at  that  moment  the  thought  flashed  upon  me 
that  she  had  attempted  suicide.  Ere  I  had  approached  her, 
however,  this  man  now  before  you  appeared,  glanced  quickly 
from  her  to  me,  and  seeing  me  with  the  revolver  in  my 
hand,  grasped  me  and  denounced  me  as  a  murderess.  So 
taken  aback  was  I  by  this  astounding  accusation  that  at 
first  I  made  no  attempt  to  deny  it.  Such  a  charge  seemed 
too  absurd  ;  but  a  few  moments  later  he  urged  me  to  escape, 
half-dragging  me  towards  the  gate,  and  leaving  Violette  in 
her  dying  agony.  I  still  had  the  revolver  in  my  hand,  and 
in  obedience  to  his  command,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did, 
I  concealed  it  in  my  dress  pocket,  and  we  both  crossed  the 
Port  d'Arcole  and  gained   the  Rue  de   Rivoli.      "  Go  back 


298  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

to  the  Louvre,"  he  said  ;  u  say  nothing  to  anybody,  and 
your  guilt  can  never  be  proved."  This  I  did,  and  read  in 
the  next  morning's  papers  of  the  mysterious  assassination. 
Some  three  days  later  he  again  called,  and  in  the  evening  I 
met  him.  My  first  words  were  in  explanation  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  found  me,  but  his  attitude  had 
changed.  Instead  of  being  solicitous  after  my  welfare,  he 
declared  his  intention  of  giving  information  against  me, 
allowing  me  one  alternative  —  to  leave  for  England  with 
him.  If  I  would  consent  to  that,  he  would  preserve  silence. 
If  not,  the  revolver  concealed  in  my  bedroom  at  the  Louvre 
was,  in  itself,  sufficient  evidence  to  send  me  to  the 
guillotine.' 

4  The  scoundrel !  '  cried  O'Donovan,  with  his  strong 
Irish  accent.  4  And  it  was  he  himself  who  committed  the 
murder  !  ' 

4 1  hated  him,'  Fosca  went  on,  turning  to  the  man  she 
loved,  4  but  I  had  fallen  into  the  trap  he  had  so  cunningly 
prepared  for  me.  A  word  from  him  would  give  me  into 
the  hands  of  the  police,  therefore,  after  reflection,  I  resolved 
to  act  with  discretion.  That  he  held  me  in  his  power, 
irrevocably,  was  only  too  plain.  If  I  had  told  you  the 
truth,  Bertram,  you  would  not  have  believed  me  ;  therefore, 
after  several  weeks  of  indecision,  I  wrote  to  you  that  letter  — 
making  it  appear  that  I  preferred  Jean  Potin — and  left 
Paris  secretly  on  that  memorable  day,  going  to  a  distant 
relation  at  Avignon,  where  I  obtained  a  post  as  cashier  in  a 
ma  gas  in* 

4  Is  this  actually  the  truth  ?  '  cried  the  novelist,  open- 
mouthed,  at  her  strange  story. 

4  No,  it's  a  lie,'  answered  the  gross-faced  man. 

4  It's  the  truth,  every  word  of  it,'  Fosca  declared  in  a 
firm  voice.  4  For  years  I  lived  in  daily  dread  of  this  man, 
from  whose  vile  influence  I  had  only  managed  to  escape  by 


THE   TRUTH  299 

the  exercise  of  the  greatest  cunning ;  but  at  last  he  found 
me  when,  on  my  father's  success,  I  rejoined  him  in  Paris. 
He  had  then  altered  his  tactics,  compelled  me  to  buy  his 
silence,  and  from  time  to  time  he  has  extracted  from  me 
sums  of  money  under  threats  of  exposure.' 

1  A  low  blackmailer  !  '   exclaimed  Bertram. 

'Yes.  For  nearly  two  years  he  continued  to  seek  me, 
in  Rome,  in  Vienna,  in  London,  and  I  continued  to  pay 
him,  dreading  lest  the  circumstantial  evidence  might  be 
sufficient  to  convict  me  of  the  crime.  But,  at  last,  one 
day  in  London  he  told  me  of  your  marriage,  and  made  it 
his  proud  boast  that  he  was  your  wife's  lover.  The  know- 
ledge that  you  were  lost  to  me  made  me  utterly  careless  of 
my  future,  and  I  then  refused  to  further  comply  with  his 
demands,  defying  him.  In  response,  he  made  all  sorts  of 
terrible  threats,  but  from  that  day  until  this  we  have  not 
met.' 

c  Then  this  man  is  the  actual  murderer  of  Violette  ? ' 
O'Donovan  cried,  with  a  glance  of  hatred  towards  the 
shuffling  old  man,  who  stood  humiliated,  with  face  livid. 

c  Listen,'  she  continued ;  c  listen,  and  I  will  give  you 
further  explanation.  Until  a  week  ago,  I  believed  that 
such  was  the  case,  and  that  the  only  person  who  could 
solve  the  mystery,  which  had  so  puzzled  all  Paris,  was 
myself.  The  truth,  however,  has  just  been  revealed,  and 
therefore  I  do  not  fear  this  man's  threats,  nor  am  I  com- 
pelled to  preserve  my  secret  longer.' 

'  The  truth  !  '  both  men  cried.  '  What  is  it  ?  Is  not 
this  man  the  assassin  ?  ' 

'  You  will  recollect  that  in  my  letter  to  you,'  she  said, 
addressing  Bertram,  c  I  declared  that  Jean  Potin  was  mv 
lover.  Jean  heard  of  that  from  some  of  his  friends  in  the 
Quartier  after  he  had  left,  therefore  kept  a  silence  that  has 
prevented  the  truth  becoming  known.     Strangely  enough, 


300  SCRIBES  AND    PHARISEES 

however,  Jean,  who,  as  you  know,  is  now  a  member  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  was  in  Italy,  and  called  on  me  at 
Lucca,  where  he  explained  to  me  the  whole  truth,  and, 
after  I  had  told  him  how  this  man  had  blackmailed  me, 
declared  that  he  is  now  ready  to  give  evidence  in  support 
of  his  statement.  He  crossed  the  garden  on  that  evening, 
as  a  near  cut,  having  entered  by  the  gate  opposite  the 
Morgue,  and  emerged  by  the  one  in  the  Rue  du  Cloitre. 
He  saw   the   murder  committed  !  ' 

1  Saw  it  committed  !  Then  he  was  an  actual  witness  ?  ' 
cried  Teddy.  '  Why  did  he  not  give  information  at  the 
time  ?  ' 

1  Because  he  also  saw  me  in  the  vicinity,  and  believed 
that  the  murder  was  the  result  of  a  quarrel  in  which  I  was 
implicated.  He  says  that  he  suspected  me  of  being  an 
accessory,  and   therefore  feared  to  speak.' 

8  But  who  killed  Violette  ?  '  demanded  the  artist,  ex- 
citedly. 

Fosca  hesitated  a  moment,  then  in  a  clear,  distinct  voice, 
answered  — 

1  The  culprit  is  that  woman  before  you,  Lena  Ros- 
mead  !  ' 

Bertram's  wife  uttered  a  low  scream,  staggered  unevenly, 
reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  her  companion 
seized  her  arm.  Her  face  was  ghastly  white ;  her  eyes 
glared  with  unutterable  terror  at  the  woman  who  had  thus 
denounced  her,  and  her  cold,  nervous  hands  trembled  as 
she  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  stood  swaying 
against   it. 

These  words  caused  both  men  to  utter  exclamations  of 
blank  surprise  and  dismay. 

1  Lena  !  '  cried  the  novelist,  in  a  dubious  tone.  '  But 
she   has  never  been    in   Paris.' 

4  Oh  !  yes,  she  has  !  '  replied  Fosca.     l  Since  the  tragedy, 


THE   TRUTH  301 

Jean,  the  single  witness,  has   succeeded   in   unearthing  the 
identity  of  Violette.' 

4  Who  was  she  ?  '  inquired  Teddy,  quickly. 
c  This  man's  step-daughter  !  ' 
*  His  step-daughter  !  '  they  cried  incredibly. 
'  It  appears  that  this  scoundrel  married  a  widow,  Vio- 
lette's  mother;  a  Frenchwoman  of  large  fortune.  The 
lady  soon  afterwards  died,  leaving  all  her  money  to  her 
daughter,  who  at  once  left  her  step-father  in  London,  and 
went  back  to  live  in  Paris,  taking  as  her  maid  this  wretched 
woman,  Lena.  Vizard  apparently  conceived  the  idea  of 
encompassing  his  step-daughter's  death,  and  so  obtaining 
her  fortune.  He  must  have  conspired  with  the  maid,  for 
it  is  a  fact  now  beyond  dispute  that  on  that  night  Lena  and 
her  mistress  went  to  the  little  garden  behind  Notre  Dame, 
and  Lena,  almost  in  the  presence  of  Vizard,  shot  Violette 
dead.  The  cunning  manner  in  which  I  was  entrapped 
there  shows  plainly  that  this  man  anticipated  some  tragic 
occurrence ;  but  whether  the  crime  was  the  result  of  a 
quarrel  between  the  two  women,  or  whether  it  had  been 
carefully  planned  by  Vizard,  whose  accomplice  this  woman 
became,  can  only  be  explained  by  her  herself.' 

c  Yes,'  gasped  Lena,  in  a  strange,  hollow  voice,  her  eyes 
glaring  round  wildly.  '  It  is  useless  to  disguise  the  truth, 
now  that  you  know  everything.  I  killed  her  !  I  —  I 
shot  her,  because  I  was  jealous  of  her.  A  man  whom  I 
thought  loved  me  had  paid  her  attention,  and  I  took  her 
there  that  night  and  deliberately  shot  her,  as  we  sat  side 
by  side,  holding  the  pistol  close  to  her  breast.  Sir  Douglas 
must  have  followed  us  there,  or  it  seems  that  he  came  to 
keep  the  appointment  he  had  made  with  this  woman  who 
has  now  denounced  me.  At  any  rate,  he  saw  me  commit 
the  crime,  and  in  order  to  save  me,  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  fastened  the  guilt  upon  her.     He  had  no  hand  in 


302  SCRIBES   AND   PHARISEES 

the  affair,  I  swear.  It  was  I  who  killed  her,  because  I 
hated  her.  I  left  Paris  next  day,  and  returned  to  London. 
I  had  only  been  absent  from  home  three  weeks,  and,  as  my 
mother  thought  I  had  been  been  visiting  friends  in  the 
country,  I  did  not  undeceive  her.  She  never  knew  that  I 
had  gone  into  service  as  a  lady's-maid.  I  believed  myself 
safe,  and  returned  to  the  theatre  ;  for  only  the  murdered 
girl's  step-father  knew  the  secret,  and  he  had  a  strong 
motive  in  preserving  silence.  I  never  dreamed  that  a 
second  person  was  witness  of  my  crime.  Ah  !  it  is  all 
terrible,  terrible  !  Here,  just  when  I  believed  it  all  for- 
gotten, my  crime  is  revived  in  every  vivid  detail,  and  I  am 
branded  as  a  murderess.  That  moment  of  mad,  impetuous 
passion  lives  in  my  memory  now  ;  how,  deliberately  I 
directed  her  attention  away  from  me,  and,  placing  the 
revolver  at  her  heart,  fired  ere  she  could  rise  or  divine  my 
intention.  Ah  ! '  she  screamed  in  a  shrill  voice  ;  c  ah  !  the 
truth  is  out  !  I  killed  her,  because  she  had  taken  from  me 
the  man  I  loved,  and  now  you  will  take  me  from  the  man 
I  love.  You  will  send  me  to  prison  —  to  the  scaffold  ! 
No ;  I  —  I  can't  bear  it.  It's  horrible.  Let  me  go. 
Open  the  door,  and  let  me  go  forth  from  here.  Have  pity 
—  have  mercy  —  Bertram  !  '  she  screamed,  holding  forth  her 
hands  to  her  husband  imploringly.    '  Have  mercy,  Bertram  !  ' 

But  he  turned  from  her  with  repugnance,  drawing  back 
lest  she  should  touch  him,  while  Vizard  stood,  white  and 
breathless,  utterly  unable  to  articulate  a  single  word  in 
defence. 

These  revelations  had  shattered  all  his  self-possession  at 
a  single  blow. 

c  You  have  confessed,'  Fosca  said,  addressing  the  guilty 
woman  trembling  before  her.  '  For  to-day,  it  is  sufficient. 
The  mystery  which  caused  so  much  sensation  in  Paris  is 
solved,  and   I   have  made  explanation  of  the  secret  which 


THE   TRUTH  303 

bound  me  to  silence.  Your  own  conscience  will  punish 
you  sufficiently  for  the  evil  you  have  wrought  —  and  after 
that  the  French  police  will  demand  your  extradition.* 

Then,  turning  to  the  two  men  standing  together,  she 
added,  '  Come,  let  us  leave  them.  To  remain  here  longer 
is  useless,  now  that  the  mystery  is  elucidated  and  this 
woman   has  confessed   her  crime.' 

1  Bertram,'  wailed  his  wife,  in  a  hoarse,  trembling  voice. 
c  Will  you  not  forgive  ? '  and  once  again  she  threw  herself 
before  him. 

1  Never ! '  her  husband  answered  firmly,  and,  as  the 
artist  unlocked  the  door,  they  all  three  passed  out  without 
further  word,  leaving  the  wretched,  hysterical  woman  still 
upon  her  knees,  blanched  and  ghastly,  in  an  attitude  of 
supplication. 

When  they  had  gone,  she  gave  one  piercing  shriek, 
which  sounded  through  the  house,  and  with  outstretched 
hands,  fell  forward  upon  her  face,  where  she  lay,  white 
and  motionless,  as  one  dead. 


CONCLUSION 

Late  that  same  night,  as  Bertram  Rosmead  sat  pondering 
deeply  in  the  smoking-room  at  Morley's  Hotel,  a  note  was 
brought  him  by  a  waiter.  He  opened  it,  and  found  a  single 
hurried  line  from  Vizard,  in  response  to  which,  after  a  few 
moments'  hesitation,  he  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  Staple  Inn. 
He  ascended  the  creaking  wooden  stairs,  and,  on  gaining 
the  top,  was  surprised  to  find  the  door  of  the  chambers 
ajar.  He  pushed  it  open  and  entered  the  untidy  sitting- 
room,  but  there  was  no  one  there.  All  was  silent.  He 
called  out,  but  there  was  no  response.  Amazed  at  finding 
the  place  deserted,  he  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room and  entered.  The  gas  was  turned  very  low,  and  at 
first  he  could  distinguish  nothing ;  but  an  instant  later, 
when  his  eyes  were  accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  he  dis- 
covered Lena  lying  half-dressed  upon  the  bed. 

He  turned  up  the  gas,  and  approached  her.  Her  eves 
were  wide  open,  staring  at  him  with  a  wild,  terrified  look, 
but  they  were  fixed  and  glazed.  He  touched  her  cheek. 
It  was  icy  cold.     She  had  been  dead  several  hours. 

The  small,  stuffy  room  reeked  of  spirits.  Upon  the 
floor  beside  her  lay  a  brandy  bottle,  where  it  had  fallen 
from   the  thin,   nervous  hand   that  death   had   relaxed. 

It  told  its  own  tale. 

Bertram  Rosmead  removed  his  hat,  and,  with  head  bent, 
murmured  a  fervent  prayer.  He  had  thought  himself 
utterly  lost  and  fallen  to  the  depths,  and  lo  !  he  was  in  the 
hollow  of  the  hand  of  God.  A  few  moments  later  he 
slowly  stooped  until  his  lips  kissed  the  cold,  dead  face. 


CONCLUSION  305 

Then  he  turned  and  went  forth  a  changed  man. 

Far  up  in  the  purple  Apennines  at  that  handsome  white 
villa,  with  its  green  sun-shutters,  which  stands  back  from 
the  dusty  high  road,  winding  through  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
Bertram  and  Fosca,  now  man  and  wife,  live  happily  through 
the  sunny  days  of  the  Tuscan  summer.  The  beautiful 
home  was  given  to  Fosca  by  the  Marquis  on  her  marriage, 
and  Bertram  has  found  it  an  ideal  spot  for  a  literary  man. 
Each  May  they  come  to  London,  for  the  novelist  is  com- 
pelled to  see  Mr.  Howden  sometimes,  and  likes  to  spend  a 
few  happy  evenings  dining  and  chatting  business  with  his 
publisher.  When  winter  comes,  however,  and  snow  and 
rain  render  life  no  longer  pleasant  in  that  tiny,  remote 
mountain  resort,  they  move  down  to  Florence,  where  they 
are  well-known  in  that  rather  exclusive,  if  impecunious,  set 
which  calls  itself  society.  But  Bertram  always  declares 
that  nowadays  he  can  only  work  at  home,  and  is  always 
eager  to  get  back  to  his  cosy,  book-lined  den,  overlooking 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  valleys   in   Italy. 

Of  Vizard  nothing  has  since  been  heard,  except  that  a 
warrant  was  granted  at  Bow  Street  a  few  days  after  Lena's 
death  for  his  arrest  in  connection  with  some  fraudulent 
company-promoting.  Teddy  O'Donovan,  in  the  everness 
of  bachelorhood,  still  enjoys  his  Saturday  house-dinners  at 
the  c  Savage.'  Once  every  year  he  visits  the  novelist  and 
his  wife  in  their  mountain  home,  and  on  such  occasions  the 
Marquis,  whose  fame  is  still  world-wide,  comes  over  from 
his  villa  near  Bologna,  to  join  the  merry  circle,  where  the 
talk  so  often  runs  upon  the  old  days  in  Paris  when  Fosca 
sold  lace  at  the  Louvre,  Bertram  was  often  compelled  to 
eat  a  handful  of  hot  chestnuts  in  lieu  of  dinner,  and  the 
seedv,  indigent  composer  of  c  II  Parpaglione '  had  a  mania 
for  borrowing  thirty  centimes.      The  reason  of  Jean's  sus- 

20 


3o6  SCRIBES   AND    PHARISEES 

picion  of  Fosca's  complicity  in  the  crime  of  the  Rue  du 
Cloitre  is  often  discussed,  and  according  to  Jean's  own 
statement,  it  seems  that  it  was  owing  to  some  disparaging 
remarks  which  she  had  made  a  few  days  before  regarding 
O'Donovan's  mysterious  love.  This,  combined  with  the 
fact  that  he  overheard  high  words  between  two  women  at 
the  moment  of  the  crime,  and  one  of  the  voices  he  recog- 
nised as  that  of  Lena,  while  a  few  seconds  later  he  saw  her 
with  a  revolver  in  her  hand,  filled  him  with  suspicion  so 
deep-rooted  that  he  deemed  it  best  to  preserve  silence. 

It  was  only  when  he  accidentally  met  Fosca,  and  she  her- 
self recalled  the  memory  of  that  fateful  evening,  that  her 
fearlessness  of  speech  and  openness  of  manner  convinced 
him  of  her  innocence.  Then  he  told  all  he  knew,  and 
revealed  the  identity  of  the  assassin.  Thus  was  solved  one 
of  the  most  curious  mysteries  which  ever  puzzled  M.  Goron 
and  his  lieutenants. 

•  ••»•• 

In  their  peaceful  lives  Bertram  and  Fosca  are  nowadays 
careless  of  everything,  so  supremely  happy  are  they  in  each 
other's  love.  To  the  English-speaking  world  the  name  of 
Bertram  Rosmead,  novelist,  is  well-known,  for  he  has  now 
risen  to  the  very  first  rank  of  writers  of  fiction,  and  his 
books  consequently  sell  by  thousands.  Many  are  the 
inducements  to  a  man  so  popular  to  go  back  and  live  in 
England,  but  he  is  entirely  without  egotism,  and,  loving  the 
quietness  of  his  home,  he  alwavs  declares  that  only  as  a 
visitor  will  he  ever  return  to  literary  London,  that  curious 
little  circle  where  Bohemian  good-fellowship  is  so  strangely 
intermingled  with  paltry  jealousy,  affectation,  and  conceit ; 
that  life  which  for  him  possesses  so  many  bitter  memories, 
the  world  of  Scribes  and  Pharisees. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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FfcB 


i%* 


LD  21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


Scribes   sbd  Pharisees 


nnrm925 


395753 


L613 

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